The Heart of a Wolf
by JesusisBoss
Summary: John never wanted this. He never wanted to get captured, or to get experimented on. He never wanted to become a werewolf. But he did. And now, as Sherlock inquires more about John's past, John is debating whether to tell Sherlock his deepest secret. No slash, just friendship. Werewolf!john.
1. A brave one

It all started when John was on his second tour of duty in Afgahnistan. He had been 27, and was quite used to the flow of army life. In fact, he preferred it over civillian life. It was more exciting, more adventurous. And, of course, he got to serve his country as well as pay for college. He and his team were checking out an abandoned warehouse that was suspected of storing enemy artillery. If they could overtake or destroy whatever was inside, the enemy would be at a huge disadvantage. John gripped his gun tighter in his hands and took a deep breath. He was waiting outside the perimeter of the building with his team, in the bushes.

All were heavily armed, and tense for the mission. They didn't know what they would meet when they came inside the warehouse. John waited for the signal from the scout up ahead. Next to him, Davies was breathing heavily. John gave him a silent look of assurance, and the younger soilder nodded thankfully. Alot of things could go wrong, and if they did, the end result wouldn't be pretty. The night sky overhead glistened with a thousand stars, and the night provided little cover.

John felt his heart thump faster in his chest. _Where's the signal?,_he thought. If they waited any longer they could be discovered. All of the sudden a low whistle came out from the night. _Thank God_, he thought with relief. The team sprung into action. They moved silently towards the building, each one ready to run for cover at a moment's notice. When they reached the side entrance, they wordlessly lined up on either side of the door with weapons raised. Captain Kurt Gavin kicked open the door, and they all waited, weapons aimed into the darkness. When the Captain declared it was safe, the team moved in. They assembled on the other side of the door, and put their night vision goggles on. John peered into the darkness and silently gasped at what he saw. Inside, there were rows upon rows of artillery. There were hundreds of various missels and bombs lining the wall, and quite a few armored vehicles were parked inside as well. And of course there was the bullets. There must have been a thousand, no, ten-thousand boxes of ammunition, just stacked on top of each other neatly. There was various sizes for different guns, and the warehouse also contained crates of smoke grenedes and car bombs. And this was just the first floor.

"Geez," John muttered under his breath. If the enemy was in possesion off something this valuable, they had to have been gaurding it somehow. Sure, their was the three armed men patrolling outside, but they had been taken care of. They couldn't have been the only protection. Where was the rest? As if on cue, a crack sounded through the air, and the man to John's right collapsed. "Sniper!" Captian Gavin yelled. "Get cover now!" John reached down and heaved the fallen man, Lieutenant Jacobson, onto his shoulders. He hulled him to the nearest cover he could find; behind a steel crate of assault rifles. As soon as he set the man down he began asserting his injuries. Behind him he could hear the Capain yelling out more orders and gunshots rang out. Davies ran over to cover him as he worked on his paitient. _Okay, it was a bullet to the abdomin, slightly to the right. His body armor softened the impact, but didn't stop it. Bullet is lodged in; shattered two, no, three ribs and nearly punctured his right lung. Lucky to be alive. Surgery must be done soon, right now must stop bleeding. _

John reached into his pack and pulled out his medical kit. He began the process of bandaging the wound. Davies was crouched next to him, firing over the side of the crate as the firefight raged on. When John finished patching the Lieutenent up as best he could, he grabbed his rifle and crouched next to Davies. There appeared to be more than twenty enemy soilders, not including the hidden sniper/snipers that had took a shot at Jacobson. John zeroed in on a man shooting from behind a truck and fired. The man went down, but another replaced him immeadiatly. John repeated the process, but no matter how many people he took out, two seemed to replace them. "We're losing!" Davies shouted from beside him. John grunted in response. They couldn't keep this up much longer, their numbers were dropping nearly as fast as the enemies were increasing. "Fall back!" Captain Gavin shouted throught the gunfire. "Aboard mission, aboard mission, fall back!" John and Davies turned to grab the injured Lieutenent just as a grenede landed within five feet of them. Acting on instinct, John kicked it in the opposite direction; mere moments before it exploded. He turned around with a sigh of relief and helped Davies lift Jacobson up. They made for the door as their comrades covered them. Two more of their soilders went down, dead before they hit the floor. Now the only people left of the team of fifteen were John, Davies, Jacobson, Gavin, a Corporal named Jessica Simone, and a Seargent named Alex Martinez. The enemy took advantage of the retreat and moved forward. By now John was drenched in sweat, and as bullets wizzed passed his head, he felt a feeling of dread creep inside of him.

Martinez fell, and right then and there John knew what he had to do. They weren't going to make it unless the soilders behind him had a distraction, something unexpected. He looked at Davies and shouted "Keep running!" He then dropped Jacobson's feet and turned around, sprinting toward the enemy, gun held high. He fired randomly, and started screaming like a mad man. It was the only thing he could do. Their pursuer's faces turned up in confusion, and they dove to the ground, trying to avoid his rapid fire. Behind him he heard Gavin yelling his name, but he kept going. It was either John sacrifice himself, or none of them get away. He knew what was going to happen to him as a result, but he didn't care. The others would make it. That's what mattered. So John kept running, straight towards the people trying to kill him. He was running so fast, that he didn't even bother to process the fact that they weren't shooting at him. They were simply watching him, waiting for him to reach them.

And when he did, he stopped running. He stood so close that he could see their breath coming out in puffs. He had expected to be shot down by now. What was going on? Slowly,expecting to be killed any moment, he raised his rifle to point at the nearest man's head, and pulled the trigger. _click._ John's heart stopped for a moment, and then beat faster than it ever had before. He was out of bullets. He was out of time. John braced himself for the impact he knew would come. Sure enough, a man stepped out of the shadows of the building and walked forward, pulling a weapon out as he did so. He was apparently the leader. John saw the tall man grin a sly, toothless smile. "You're a brave one, aren't you?," he said with a broken accent. John just stood still, watching the man point the weapon at him. It was a tazer. _Tazer? Why a..._ Then the world went black.


	2. The assasin

**Alright chapter two! I know I didn't note anything in the last one...I just figured how this works. Sorry! Anyway, I really wanted to write a werewolf!john fic, so here it is...Also, if I make any mistakes, it would be great if you could please tell me. Reviews would be lovely too. In fact, reviews would be amazing. Fantastic. Brilliant. Ridonkulous. Swaggerific. Okay I'll shut up. Anyway, make sure you review, because I need ideas on what to do for the next chapter. Disclaimer: Is season 3 out? No? Then I guess we know who DOESN'T own Sherlock...**

John's eyes opened to a blinding light. His head was pounding and his body ached. He was lying on a very polished floor, in a circular white room. It was lit by really bright lighting panels on the ceiling, and the only thing in the room besides John was a security camera on the wall. John looked down at himself. He was in a sort of uniform, that was as white as the room around him. He was also remarkably clean. Jacobson's blood was gone, and he didn't stink of sweat. Someone must have cleaned him up while he was out. Or...wait. Was he dead? Everything was white enough. But no...heaven wouldn't hurt like this. He was sore from all the running and lifting he had done prevously, and his system was still drowsy from the tazer dart. He was very much alive. He looked over his body to make sure he didn't have any injuries. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises (probably from hitting the ground after being shot with the tazer), he was fine. He was just looking over his arm one last time when he noticed something on his forearm.

It was a tattoo. John blinked and peered closer at the marking. The tattoo consisted of a six didgit number, inked in so it ran parallel to his body when he hung his arm down. The numbers read:582093. John gulped. Someone had tattooed-no branded- him while he was unconsious. Why? Was he a POW? It certainly didn't look like POW camp. He didn't know where he was. A hospital? Labratory? Just then, the door leading into the circular room was opened, and a tall man walked in. He stood before John with a look of curiousity on his face. John struggled to stand up, trying not to look in pain. He studied the man, just as the man studied him. The man was gruff looking, with four days worth of stubble and cold, dark eyes. He was muscular and broad shouldered, but still held an air of a scientific man about him. He was wearing a standard camouflage uniform, and his name tag said Barimore. His boots squeaked as he circled John, who stood absolutely still. Finally the man spoke. "Captain John H. Watson. Fascinating." John didn't move, just stared straight ahead as the man circled him.

"Do you know why you're here, Dr. Watson? It is Dr., isn't it?," the man continued. John stayed silent. When he didn't answer, the man continued. "You're here because you are perfect. In every way, you are the absolute best match for what we need. Strong. Couragous. Fearless. Reckless too. Utterly reckless, taking the risk that you did. But that's okay, in fact that's wonderful. It shows what you're willing to sacrifice for your cause. As I said before, you're perfect." This time John spoke. "Perfect for what? What am I doing here?" The man stopped circling John and smiled. "You're perfect for our cause, John. This place," he said, gesturing to the place around them," is called Baskerville. It's a military base, dedicated to bringing out the next best weapon. You." "Me?" John said, confused.

The man nodded. "We are going to make you indestructable John. Here at Baskerville we had an idea. What if, using genetic manipulation, we could give a certain human being abilities, abilities beyond anything the world has ever imagined. Why, we could make billions, making an assasin like that for the British government. So we started a project, called project H.O.U.N.D. Our headquarters were set up elsewhere, and long story short, our experiments didn't work. It didn't work for two reasons: one, the formula we were using for genetic manipulation was slightly off, but that has long since been fixed. And the second reason, is that we didn't use the formula on the right type of person. We can't give these abilities to just anyone John. We have to give them to someone fit for the change, someone who wouldn't abuse them or lose control. So we set out to find the perfect test subject, and upped our security on the new project. Well, our searches took us to you, John.

And now, you are about to become the world's most dangerous person." John blinked as he took this all in. He hadn't been consious for more than five minutes, and now he was being told that he was about to become a lab rat for genetic manipulation. "What are you going to do to me?" John asked. He didn't let his voice waver a bit, despite the panic he was feeling. The man took a moment to answer. "We are going to cause your body to, in basic terms, shift. We've done cloning here, and a fair share of transfomations, but our real passion for the past 30 years has been shapeshifting. And we are going to give this brilliant ability to you.

For the next six months, we are going to make you into an assasin. THE assasin. People are going to cringe when they hear your name. You are going to be able to, at will, shift into a wolf. Literally, you will be part wolf. Afterall, you already have the heart of one. A modern day werewolf if you like." The man shrugged and turned to leave. "Oh, and one more thing," he said before walking out. "I'm Major Barimore. And if you try to escape, just know there's a mine field outside." Then the man left without another word.

**You see that button down below? The one that says review? Click it and tell me what you thought, and I'll give you a plate of bacon. Except it will be imaginary. Pleeeeeeeeaaaseeee review!**


	3. Just keep running

**Anyone who review/followed, thank-you. I love you. Okay not literally. But just so you know, you are officially awesome. Congratulations. Anyways...this chapter is going to get straight to the point of how John escapes. And that means that the next chapter has...SHERLOCK! Oh, and btw I have become really sick with notenoughreview disease. It's life threatening. So if you want to save my life, review! ;). Disclaimer: Yeah, I own Sherlock...on DVD. The rights? Not so much. **

For the next six weeks John was put through hell. Literal hell. At first, various scientists just took him out to be x-rayed, and to test him physically. They weighed him, measured his heart rate at different jogging paces, made him do various excercises until he ached. And then the real pain began. They started dosing him every other day with the transformation formula. He resisted as much as he could, but they just ended up putting him under whenever he was given the formula . Whenever he woke up from a dosing, he always felt as if he was on fire. He could literally feel himself burning up. And he always felt slightly crazy afterwards as well, as if there was a wild animal inside him, trying to get out. Which, he supposed, in a way there was.

At first, he was skeptical that the people of Baskerville were going to make him into a shapeshifter. But as his tests progressed, and as he slowly began to act and feel more like an animal each day, he began to wonder. So far, he hadn't actually turned into the wolf. Physically, he looked absolutely the same. But on the inside, random emotions and instincts started taking hold of him. He started to only want to eat meat. And alot of it. Any meat anyone waved in front of him-pork, bacon, beef, chicken, turkey- he would very nearly swallow whole. He never wanted to eat anything living (the human in him rejected it), but he could never turn down any meaty food. He also began to notice his defensive side changing. Whenever a scientist came into his room to take him for testing, he visibly bristled. He could practically feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his lip would curl back to reveal his teeth. Once, he had actually heard a very inhumane growl leave his throat. He was slowly becoming an animal, and it scared him.

After about two weeks of treatment, Barimore walked into his room and introduced him to an American man named Jack. No one told him Jack's last name, it was just Jack. He was an older man, not old enough to be considered a senior, but old enough that his hair was quite grey. Jack was going to be John's trainer. "Look kid," he had said the day they met, "I don't want to be here anymore than you do. In fact, I had less of a choice in this than you did. But that doesn't matter. The point is, you're almost at the end of your dosage, and pretty soon, you're gonna start transforming. My job is to help you control yourself, and to make you into an assasin. Training starts now." And train they did. John spent approximently 6 hours a day shooting targets in the training area. He would snipe and snipe and snipe, and then snipe some more. Jack pushed him as hard as he could. The rest of the time was filled with getting John to master transforming. It wasn't difficult. John found that whenever he got mad, at any little thing, he would feel the wolf inside of him come out. All Jack had to do to get John to change was remind him of where he was, and John would do the rest. The first time John transformed, he felt had felt incredible.

The transformation was painless and took less than a second. John was ridiculously fast. And strong. He couldn't believe what he could do. Everything smelled so much sharper, everything sounded so much louder, and everything looked so much more detailed. For a second, he forgot his anger and regret at the scientists. He almost felt happy. But then he remembered what he was being forced to become; a killer and assasin. He didn't want that. Not at all. In war, when you killed someone it was in self defense, a kill or be killed situation. But an assasin? They killed because _they were payed to._ And John would never do that. No matter what they did to him. But still, he and Jack trained. Pretty soon John could transform at a moment's notice, and he could easily overpower any opponent in hand-to-hand combat. He could fight exceedingly well in wolf form as well. (Once he had even bit Barimore for getting too close to him. He had recieved a tranquilizer dart for his efforts; but it was still worth it.)

And even though Jack pushed John to his limits, he trusted Jack. Jack saw John as more than a weapon of mass destruction, he saw John as a person. Even John himself rarely looked at his reflection in the mirror without thinking _experiment _or _freak._ But Jack was always there to remind John that better days were coming, and that what happened to him wasn't his fault. So John trusted Jack. With his life. And it's a good thing to. Because on the sixth day of the sixth week of being at Baskerville, Jack had walked up to John during training and whispered something in his ear. John had frozen and looked at Jack for a second with a look of utter disbelief. Jack simply nodded. Then John transformed, spun around,and ran. He ran faster than he had ever ran before, and being a wolf, that was pretty damn fast. He ran out of the training area, and into the hallway. He ran past lab after lab, past his room, until he reached the door he knew would be open. The door to the outside.

Some people tried chasing him, but they couldn't keep up. A man walked out with a rifle and pointed it at John. John didn't care, he ran out the door Jack had opened, out into the sunlight. He ran past army vehicles and onto the moor. He ran right over the place where there wasn't any mine bombs, because Jack had told him there wouldn't be. He was slightly aware of the man with the rifle running after him. He barely registered the man aim the gun at his furry back. And he almost felt the bullet that ripped through his shoulder. But John didn't care. He just kept running.

**Okay people, that was Chapter three. Did you like it? Love it? Hate it? Want to change anything about it? THEN TELL ME! The review button's right there. Calling to you. Right below. This time if you review, you don't get bacon because I hear it's inflammatory. But since Sherlock comes in the next chapter, I'll put in any hilarious things you think Sherlock should say/do. But ONLY IF YOU REVIEW...**


	4. Hedgehog in the Bathtub

**Disclaimer- Me? Own Sherlock? Do I sound like Steven Moffat to you? Cause just saying, I posted 4 chapters in two days. And we're still waiting for Season 3...**

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, I AM GOING TO BLOODY KILL YOU!" John shouted as he thundered down the stairs. In the kitchen, Sherlock snapped his head up from his microscope. A very angry and very wet John Watson stood in the doorway with a towel wrapped around him. "Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth, trying to calm down. "Would you care to explain why there's a HEDGEHOG in the BATHTUB! I just stepped in there, and that animal very nearly gave me a heart attack! Why is it there? Is this another one of your BLASTED EXPERIMENTS?!"

"No, actually it's my stand in for you," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Stand in for me?" John asked, confused. Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Yes obviously. I needed SOMEONE to talk to while you were away visiting Harry, and I thought it looked like you. So I kept it." Sherlock turned back to his work. "In the bathtub?" John inquired. Sherlock gave John his best _what is wrong with your mind _face. "Well where else was I supposed to put it? Honestly John, I wasn't keeping it for that long, a cage would've been unreasonable."

"And you're all about being reasonable, aren't you?" John asked in an irritated voice. "You couldn't have put it any better John." John rolled his eyes and went to turn away when suddenly Sherlock snapped his head up from his microscope. "What's that?". John turned back around. "What's what?" Sherlock stood up and grabbed John's right arm. He pointed to the series of numbers etched in the skin. "582093. What is it?" John looked down at the tattoo he had kept hidden from Sherlock for as long as he'd known him. He cursed himself for not wearing one of his jumpers to hide it. "Oh, it's nothing. It's just a... just a tattoo I got from a long time ago." John pulled out of Sherlock's grasp to walk back upstairs to the hedgehog in the bathtub.

**Yeah, I know it was short, but someone said I should be one of those people who update often. ;). I also want to give people the chance to tell me some funny Sherlock things to put in. Come on people! Your ideas could be put in this work of legend! Just write 'em in your reviews! Also, thank-you thank-you thank-you to bearswidow, xSommerRegan, and The Forever Young One. And special thanks to User15. I had no idea you were the one that wrote Mind Over Body! I love that story! Your review fueled me to finish this chapter at one in the morning. Ugghhh...**


	5. A murderer's claim

**Alright chapter five! FYI: Your wish is my command, so I tried to put my former chapters into paragraphs. But for some reason it won't let me indent properly...sorry! Anyway, this is more of an explanatory chapter. The next few are going to be getting good! Disclaimer: Some day, I'll own Sherlock. Really, I will. But today is Sunday, not some day.**

John hadn't felt okay since the day that he escaped from Baskerville. He had initially felt very happy at his newfound freedom, but then he realized what he was. A freak. He was constantly fighting the urge not to lose control and turn into a wolf when he got angry. He would eat raw meat like it was candy, and he honestly HATED cats. Especially hairless ones.

John was unwanted. None of his old friends talked to him anymore, and because of his shoulder he couldn't go back into the army. John was in pain. He had developed a limp from twisting his paw when he had run away from Baskerville, and on rainy days his shoulder would feel like it was on fire. John was alone. Yes, it was safe to say that John hadn't felt okay since Baskerville. That is, until he met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock made everything better, without even knowing what he did. With his deductions and experiments he prooved he was just as freaky as John was, and John loved him for it. When Sherlock asked John to go to crime scenes he showed John how much he was wanted. Sherlock had been the one that had made John's limp go away, and took away the pain of his shoulder.

But most of all, Sherlock kept John from being alone. Sherlock saw something in John that John didn't see in himself. He gave John adventure, and was his only trusted companion. John never felt like a freak, unwanted, in pain, or alone when he was with Sherlock. So imagine his horror when the possibility of losing his best friend came up. John thought-no, he knew- that if Sherlock found out John was a werewolf, he would do one of two things.

1.) Sherlock would be disgusted at John for what he was and move out, or kick John out. John would then lose his only real friend and be alone once more.

2.) Sherlock wouldn't view John as a person, he would view him as an experiment. Sherlock, ever the scientist, would want to put tests on John, would want to collect data and theorize. That was understandable, however John cringed everytime he thought of what the outcome would be-Sherlock wouldn't be interested in him anymore as a friend, he would just be Sherlock's lab rat. Therefore, John would lose his only real friend and be alone once more.

Either option seemed terrible to John, and he knew he HAD to keep his secret hidden. But there were difficulties. For example, Sherlock had discovered his I.D tattoo. Sherlock wouldn't likely drop the subject of what it was and where John got it, so he had to think of a reasonable excuse soon. Another thing: Mycroft. Although Mycroft practically was the British goverment, the security on John's file at Baskerville really was top rate. It would take months for anyone to hack in. But Mycroft was getting close. The last time John had been abducted by "Anthea", Mycroft had asked John about his time in Afganistan. He stated that a good chunk of John's military record was missing, and he couldn't find it. John claimed he knew nothing, but Mycroft was still suspicious.

Furthermore, John was finding it harder and harder to keep his cool around Sherlock lately. Without a case, Sherlock was becoming very irritable, and turning to extreme expeimenting to get his mind off things. John could hardly swallow his anger when he found the couch tye-dyed, or the curtains set on fire. Once he had found an eye ball floating in his tea. That had nearly done it. But John had held on to his human form, and left before things got messy. He couldn't bare to think what would have happened if he had stayed near Sherlock just a few moments longer...

John sighed. He was sitting on the couch thinking about all of this. Why was his life so insane? Why couldn't he just be normal, with a normal friend and a normal job. But no...normal was overrated. He liked insane much better. Even if it meant resisting the urge to transform into a wolf all the time. At that moment Sherlock burst into the room, his eyes lit up with excitement and his coat billowing out behind him as he started pacing. "Lestrade called, there's been a murderer. A SERIAL murderer. And he left a note. Oh John, this is just brilliant, we have to go." "What's so brilliant about it?" John asked as he heaved himself off the couch. Sherlock stopped his excited pacing to look at John with a mischevious glint in his eye. " The murderer claims to be a werewolf."

**Okay, that was my pathetic attempt at a cliffhanger...and yes Baskerville's coming soon, so stay tuned folks! I don't know how else to beg you for reviews, so I'm going to order you instead. Review. NOW. (Please?)**


	6. Don't do it

**Stay tuned 'cause Baskerville's coming up next... Warning- there's a little bit of violent thoughts in this chapter, but nothing too bad. Still, just to be safe...Disclaimer: So my Mom said she was going to buy me season 3 of Sherlock when it came out. That officially makes her the best Mom ever! The only thing that could make it better would be getting the rights..**

John was having a panic attack. Okay, not in the medical sense, but in the "I'm seriously freaking out "sense. They were in a cab on their way to the crime scene, and John was doing his best not to bail out of the vehicle. He just couldn't wrap his head around it. Sherlock, the most logical person he knew, apparently belived the existence of werewolves in a heartbeat. And what's more, the werewolf was an apparent murderer. Possibly. It could have just been some lunatic, but with John's luck it was probably another Baskerville experiment. John sighed and looked down at his hands. Sherlock was next to him, tapping his fingers on his knee impaitiently. John gave in. "Sherlock, you really can't be serious! I mean in theory, werewolves don't even exist..." "John," Sherlock interupted. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before being presented with all the facts. Inevitably one begins to twists facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts. Although I agree it is hilariously improbable that a werewolf was involved, I will not go against my own method. Besisdes, there are people who state God couldn't possibly exist, and yet we know they are wrong." John snapped his head up at this. "Wait, you believe in God?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well obviously, it's the only logical explanation of all the facts. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. And anyway, even if the killer isn't a werewolf, which is the more likely scenario, he's a bloody genius. The body was found in the most miraculous fashion...Picture this. The victim, 26 year old Marco Price, is out on a date with his girlfriend. They go to a movie, and arrive at the theater at approximently 10:06. The movie, a ridiculous horror film, is on supernatural beings and such, including Werewolves. At 10:13 the movie started, and the girlfriend, Hannah Swailsburgh, can't ever remember her date getting up from his seat. She doesn't remember anyone even coming close to the couple, because they were in the back of the theater with not many people around. At 11:45 the movie ended. When the lights came on, she turned to find her boyfriend dead in his seat. He was brutally mauled, with bite marks and limbs missing and such. But she claims he had never gotten up. And on his body, a sticky note was found with a note scrawled on it that read- Here sits Alex Price, the unfortunate victim of a werewolf. And John, the evidence really does all point to some caninine-ish figure commiting the crime, at least from what I've seen. There was bitemarks all over the body, claw marks, and saliva as well. It's identified as canine, but not from any breed known. Oh, this should be fun." John shook his head, looking away. If it was a werewolf, it sounded like a werewolf losing control. This was NOT going to be fun.

When they arrived at the crime scene, a run down movie theater, Sally Donovan stood waiting for them. John had never been entirley sure about Sally. She was no where near as bad as Anderson, but John had judged that mainly on smell. Being a wolf, he could tell alot about a person when he first me them, just from their scent. Sherlock smelled...amazing, in a complicated way, like how some people were attracted to the smell of gasoline or Sharpies. Anderson absolutely reeked. Sally didn't smell bad, but she had Anderson's scent on her alot, so she didn't smell good either. "Hello Freak," she greeted when they came up to her. "Sally," Sherlock replied. Honestly, John was amazed that Sherlock still called her that. After all the times Donovan had called him "freak" and "psycopath", Sherlock always called her Sally, or Donovan when she was being referred to. He never insulted her with nicknames of his own, and John knew perfectly well how capable Sherlock was of giving nicknames. Sure, he embaressed her with his deductions occasionally, but John couldn't name one person Sherlock HADN'T done that to. It was things like this that people often overlooked when judging Sherlock Holmes.

"Lestarde's over by the body, it's up this way," she said, leading them up some stairs into a brightly lit theater. Sherlock took in everything; soaking up every detail before examining the body. The victim was quite a gory sight to see. He sat slumped in a chair in the back row, with his head sunken upon his chest. The insides of his stomach was missing, and his shirt was practically in shreds. His left arm was gone, and his right had a good chunk taken out of it. Clawmarks and bitemarks lined the body up and down, and you could see more blood than skin. Sherlock crouched by the body and, completely ignoring Lestrade, started his investigations. John, meanwhile, was looking at the theater around them. It was a small theater, and seated about fifty. The seats were well worn and faded, and the aisles were littered with popcorn. However, one thing stood out to John the most. The seats sat raised higher than the side aisle, so that when it was dark, one could crounch down completely unnoticed. It would have been ridiculously easy for a wolf to stalk up to Marco Price unnoticed. John turned back around as Sherlock stood up. He then walked over to where a crying girl, Hannah Swailsburgh, was standing. She wore an expensive outfit, and had on a very sweet perfume.

"Miss Swailsburgh," he said, getting her attention. "I have some questions for you about last night." The girl nodded, but didn't say anything. "Had Marco been to Waterloo recently?" The girl seemed confused, but shook her head. "No, not that I know of. But he has been out with his friends alot, I don't know where they go." Sherlock continued. "How long have you known Marco?" "Just over two years," she answered. "Our anniversary would have been in three weeks". Her voice broke on "weeks". "Did you see anyone suspicious in the theater last night, anyone that was looking at Marco?" "No, no one at all." "Did you eat or drink anything during the movie?" She paused and thought for a moment. "Yes, I had a large diet coke. Marco didn't have anything." Sherlock nodded. "Alright Miss Halsburgh, I have one last question for you, and this is so very important. The key to this case depends on it." The girl stood up straighter, preparing for the question. "What," Sherlock said slowly," do you remember about the movie?" The girl blinked in suprise.

"Sorry?" she said. "The movie, what can you tell me about the movie? Plot, characters, anything!" The girl appeared flustered, but thought about it for a moment. "Ummm, well it was a horror movie, I remember that. But I...I can't really recall anything else. Sorry." Sherlock didn't say anything, but instead walked away. Lestrade looked at John, who shrugged. They followed Sherlock back to the body. "Okay, what have you got?" Lestrade asked, knowing Sherlock would give him SOMETHING. "Well, the victim was cheating on his girlfriend. He has two completely different perfumes clung to his body, you can smell it through the blood. He's also been walking to his other girlfriend's house quite alot recently; his shoes are covered in mud only found in a certain part of Waterloo. Hannah Swailsburgh, as I recall, lives no where near there, and he hasn't told her where he's going lately. We know he's visiting his other girlfriend because he's wearing a ring on his right hand, that has the markings of a pawnshop in Waterloo. It's a casual looking thing, Hannah wouldn't have been too suspicious about it. But, it's still easily a romantic gift. It's also simple, just like one of the perfumes he has on him, so that only strengthens my theory. Basically, he's one of those odd blokes that can't decide between two women. One is laidback and simple, the other's highclass and expensive. You saw Hannah's outfit, it was ridiculously overpriced. Basically, one of his girlfriends figures out his secret, and well, you can imagine the rest. Emotions make people do some absolutely crazy things, that's why I never bother with them. Now as to how the girl from Waterloo did the crime, that is quite intriguing. She must have been seriously mentally deranged."

John's heart stopped dead at this. "Sorry, what?" he said, with some panic rising in his voice. Sherlock looked at John funnily. "Well, she must have had something wrong with her. Her boyfriend cheats on her, so she finds it neccesary to brutally maul him on a date with the other girl. And call herself a werewolf." "Hold on, back up," Lestrade said, confused. "You actually think the murderer was a werewolf?" Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "What is wrong with your minds? You can't even comprehend what I'm saying! Oh, I wonder if anyone else ever feels like they're constantly surrounded by idiots." John felt his self-control slip, just a little bit. Sherlock calling the possible werewolf menatlly deranged had caught him off gaurd. "Sherlock, just tell us this in more detail," Lestrade said, trying not scream. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but continued. "I said the girl called herself a werewolf_, _not that she was one. She's just a psycopath who lost control. We also know that she..." Sherlock went on with his deductions, but John didn't hear him. That phrase just kept running through his mind. P_sycopath__ who lost control. _Over and over John ran it through his head, trying to figure out exactly what Sherlock meant. Was she a psycopath because she lost control in such a way, or a psycopath because of the aftermath?

John clenched his fists as he realised it was both. What would Sherlock say if he knew that John was capable of the exact same thing, and in fact had come very close to doing so a couple of times? John felt his body begin to shake. What right did _Sherlock_ of all people, have to insult someone like that? He didn't understand what that person could have been going through. Maybe that girl had been genetically engineered to lose control like that. He could have very well just called John a psycopath. And Sherlock was practically a machine himself! "Sherlock," John said in a voice dangerously low. Sherlock broke off his deductions mid sentence, looking at John. "What do you mean, psycopath?" John said through clenched teeth. Sherlock looked like he was about to explode. "For heaven's sakes John, are you really that dull?! Have you ever been dropped on your head as a baby? What don't you get about that statement? You hear the word often enough when reffered to me. She's a _psycopath_, with dangerous capabilities and an unsound mind. What is so hard to understand?" John felt every word hit him in the chest. _Dangerous capabilities and an unsound mind._ Sherlock had just crossed a line, without knowing it. Because even though he didn't mean to, every insult he called the girl, he also called John. And John was going to make him pay for it. He could feel the familiar heat rising in his muscles, he could hear his blood pulsing through his ears. He could practically see Sherlock covered in blood, screaming in agony..._No!_ A small voice in the back of his mind started screaming at him._ Don't do it! He's your friend, he's your partner. He doesn't know what he's saying! _John ignored the voice, and felt the wolf inside of him coming out. He bared his teeth at Sherlock, and let out a snarl of fury. Everyone in the room stopped and looked at John. John kept his eyes on Sherlock, who now had something else on his face...fear? Puzzlement? _Good,_ John thought. _He can think about one last thing before I tear him to pieces_. He prepared to phase, prepared to end it all, when all of a sudden a familiar voice screamed out behind him. "KID, DON'T DO IT!"

**My apoligies if it was confusing. I didn't think it was, but then again, I am the one who wrote it! If you need me to clarify anything, just ask me in your reviews. Speaking of reviews...the buttons right down there people. You know the drill.**


	7. I Will Find Out

**So I made a few small changes to Chapter 6... thank you Rose O' Sharron! And also, a response to Fai's Smile- no, any similarities between Jack O'Neil and my Jack are completely coincidental. Sorry for the confusion. Disclaimer: I'm watching Doctor Who while typing this. Steven Moffat owns Doctor Who. He also owns Sherlock. But I don't. (I'm short on disclaimers, okay?)**

John froze in place. He couldn't move. Jack. Jack was here. He was back. And he was getting in the way of what John was trying to do. "Give me one reason I shouldn't. He deserves it; you know he does," John said, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock. Sherlock was watching the scene curiously, but still had a slight look of fear in his eye. Fear of John. "If you kill him, you're really gonna regret it later," Jack answered in a low voice. Every word was slow and drawn out. "And besides, if you had told him earlier, he would've known that would make you angry." John wheeled around, his fury now aimed at Jack. The man hadn't changed a bit, he still had his broad frame and droopy eyes. Right now, he was holding his hands out in what was supposed to be a calming manner. It didn't help. "Told him! What do you mean, "If I told him!". You're the one that said I had to keep this whole thing a secret! You're the one that said I shouldn't hesitate when going for the kill. Did you forget about all those months in THAT place!" John spat.

"You think I forgot? I'm the one who got you out of THAT place. You're the one who forgot." John pulled up short. That hurt. What Jack said had hurt. Of course he hadn't forgotten what Jack had done for him; he would never do that. He had wondered if they would ever see each other again; had hoped that some day they would find one another. And here they were, reunited; and at each other's throats. John swallowed, and took a deep, shaky breath. Jack nodded, seeing John relax a hair more. "That's right, relax. Now try to think. What's better in this situation: control, or rage?" John was shaking with the effort of not phasing. He could still feel the anger at Sherlock trying to claw its way out. He wanted so badly to get his revenge...the wolf inside was practically bristling, and John struggled not to do the same. If he could just get away from Sherlock... "Control," he choked out, and then sprinted for the door. Jack followed close behind.

Four hours later, John found himself walking up the steps to 221B in a mood almost as bleak as the weather. He was done. Sherlock was going to kick him out. Mycroft no doubt knew about the scene that had occurred, and was probably inside now telling Sherlock the possible danger John put him in. Mycroft didn't know everything, but he wasn't stupid. John took a deep breath as he prepared to walk through the door. _Now or never._ He opened it slowly, and the hinges made a dramatic squeaking sound. Inside, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, legs crossed and reading a book. He didn't look up when John walked in. John stood awkwardly for a moment, then made for the stairs. He might get out of this after all. "John." Sherlock's baritone voice was clear and deep as it spoke the name. John turned slowly on his heel to look at his flatmate. Sherlock was still in the same position, but now had his eyes locked with John's. "Sit," he said simply. John obeyed, sitting wordlessly on the couch. Sherlock went back to reading his book, which had a title that John couldn't read because it was in Greek. John waited for Sherlock to start speaking, but Sherlock completely ignored him. He waited a full ten minutes in silence, awkwardly glancing at his friend. John cleared his throat, but still got no response. Finally, he sighed and gave up.

"Sherlock, what do you want?" Sherlock set his book down and rested his chin in his hands. He looked at John with his _I'm deducing everything about your existence _face, before responding. "Who was that man at the crime scene earlier?" John frowned. _Here we go_. " He was an old friend of mine." "From the war?" Sherlock prompted. "Yeah," John said simply. "From the war." He wasn't going to give away anymore information than he had to. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "But he was American." John nodded. "Yes, yes he was." Sherlock gave John a glare. "John, if you refuse to give me proper answers, don't doubt that I will have Mycroft look into your army history." He let the threat linger in the air for a moment, before jumping up and pacing thoughtfully. "First the tattoo on your arm, then that whole stunt at the crime scene. What is going on? And why did that man say you were going to kill me? WERE you going to? Why did the word psychopath set you off? And most importantly," Sherlock said, stopping to face John," what was going on with you physically. You were shaking, and if didn't know better I'd say you practically snarled." Sherlock stopped speaking and waited for answers to his questions. John didn't want to answer a single one.

So he didn't. "Mycroft's already looked into my military past. He didn't find a single damn thing out of the ordinary." Sherlock rose an eyebrow. "Apart from the lack of content for the last six months. It just said you were MIA. Absolutely nothing else. No details about where you were, no reports about your health. Or how you came back. Absolutely nothing." Sherlock sat down and looked at John keenly, folding his hands once again under his chin. John sighed. "So you've talked to Mycroft, have you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He showed up two hours ago and told me the little mystery surrounding you, now stop avoiding questions and answer me." John paused a moment, considering, and then spoke. " Sherlock, I know what I'm about to say is going to drive you completely insane, but, I. Can't. Tell you. I'm sorry. There's a reason that not even Mycroft knows, and well, it's a pretty good reason." Sherlock looked like he was about to tear his hair out. He gritted his teeth and started speaking very quickly. "You of all people can't possibly think that I will let this go. John, we both know how this ends and I'd much rather it be sooner than later. I WILL find out, whether you want me to or not, so I suggest you TELL ME NOW. If Mycroft's the problem, I'll handle him, he's a blundering idiot anyway. Besides, what could you possibly have to hide from me?" Sherlock said the last sentence as if it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. John looked at him sadly. "Just one thing Sherlock. Just one thing. And I'm sorry. But you need to let it go." Pause. "Please. I'll leave if you want me to, I'll go right now, just don't try and solve this. Please." Sherlock looked confused.

"Why would you want to leave? Did I do something wrong?" John almost laughed despite the angst of the moment. "No, I thought you might want me to leave because you were angry at me." Sherlock considered this. "Is that one of those feeling things?" "Yeah, one of those feeling things." Sherlock nodded, but still looked frustrated at John's refusal to give him answers. John decided to change the subject. "So, I hear you solved the murderer case. How was it done?" Sherlock waved his hand passively. "Oh it wasn't nearly as interesting as I hoped it would be. The girl in the theater was drugged, the killer took the man from the back of the theater, and creatively had her dog help maul him. A knife was involved." John scrunched his eyebrows. "Wait wait, how did you know the girl was drugged?" "It's obvious isn't it?" John shook his head at Sherlock's surprised face. "The movie. She didn't remember a thing about the movie, even though it was announced as one of the scariest films of the year. She had a soft drink during the movie, that's probably where it came from. She didn't see her boyfriend get kidnapped, didn't remember the movie, so she must have been drugged. Simple." John shook his head. "Fantastic." Sherlock's lips turned up in the slightest of smiles. "You're easily amused." John laughed as he got up. _That didn't go so bad,_ he thought as he got ready to go to his bedroom. Put Sherlock called him back. "John." John looked back wearily.

"Yeah?"

"I will find out. You know that don't you?"

"Yeah."

**I'm so sorry. I lied. Baskerville didn't want to make an appearence in this chapter. But I SWEAR the next chapter will be all about Baskerville. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to fall of Saint' Barts and appear to die but not really 'cause I'm just boss like that. ;) Please review. They seriously make my day so much better, you have no idea.**


	8. Back to Baskerville

**I'm so sorry for the late update, I feel like such a Steven Moffat making you guys wait. THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the reviews! So, here's Baskerville, and just so you're aware, it's like a flash forward (if there is such a thing) from the last chapter. Enjoy! Disclaimer: I've never been to Britain. I don't even have a decent British accent. So it's not really possible for me to own Sherlock.**

John was on his blog. Blogging. He sighed. It had been a long morning. He'd gone to get the shopping, and traffic was terrible. Then he had to wait twice as long to check out (blasted chip-n-pin machines), and now he had no idea where Sherlock was. He sighed again. He had hoped Sherlock would wait for John if a new case came, but Sherlock was Sherlock, and he wasn't going to wait around for John to finish _shopping._ At that moment, the consulting detective walked through the door. John glanced up, and then went back to his blog. Then he looked up again in suprise.

"Well that was tedious," Sherlock grumbled. He was covered in blood, dirt, sweat, and more blood. He was also holding a harpoon in one hand, and was breathing a little heavier than usual.

"You went on the tube like that?" John said in a disbeliving voice.

"None of the cabs would take me!"

John rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock. Sherlock went to his room to change. Meanwhile, John moved to his comfy chair and opened up his email. He sent a message to Jack.

_Hey, where have you been? How have things been going since I last saw you? We barely got to talk. Email back._

_-John_

John looked over his email dissaprovingly. He had to be as general as possible in his messages to Jack, because not only did Sherlock constantly break into his computer, but he was certain Mycroft was spying on him as well. John sent the message and went back to his blog. He had typed up quite a few cases, and was recieving alot of positive feedback. His counter, however, was still stuck at 1895. "Damn blog," he muttered. He decided to post a few new photos, including the one of Sherlock in the deerstalker. He chuckled evilly to himself. He couldn't wait to see Sherlock's face when he found out. At that moment, Sherlock walked back into the room. He was now free of blood and muck, and was wearing his blue dressing gown. He was still holding the harpoon though.

He began pacing restlessly across the room. "Anything up yet?" he said restlessly. John checked his computer. "Nothing on the website." Sherlock groaned. He paced some more. John checked the stack of newspapers next to him. He began reading off the cases, but Sherlock interrupted him. "Oh there's nothing of importance. God!" He slammed the harpoon down and then froze. He slowly turned his head towards John with a serious look on his face.

"John. I need some. Get me some."

"No."

"Get me some."

"No. Cold turkey, we agreed. No matter what. Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No one in a two mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?"

John cleared his throat. Sherlock gave up and began ransacking the flat looking for his cigarrettes. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sherlock," he said, trying to reason with him," you're doing really well, don't give up now." Sherlock ignored him and contiued shoving papers off the desk. "Tell me where they are. Please," he said desperately turning around. "Please." John didn't budge. Sherlock tried a different tactic. "I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." John laughed. " Oh it was worth a try," Sherlock said before diving on the floor to check his persian slipper. At that moment, John's email alert rang. He checked his inbox. It was from Jack.

_Kid, I can't talk anymore, I've got alot of work to do. But if my information's correct, Baskerville has made more advances on the H.O.U.N.D project. Apparently it escaped, and killed a local. Those guys really need to learn when to stop. But here's the real news- a man is coming to consult you and your friend about H.O.U.N.D Kid, like I said, I am so ridiculously busy with something you can't even imagine. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to go back there. You need to put away any rumors about the project, because if someone really finds out, you might be discovered. And we can't have that. Be strong, keep safe, and STAY IN CONTROL._

_-Jack._

_P.S: I secured your email account so that no one can tap into the conversations. You don't have to code anything anymore._

John clenched his teeth. Baskerville had made ANOTHER experiment. Idiots. Why did they insist on ruining people's lives? Now he was going to have to go back. Back to Baskerville. Dammit!

John had very mixed feelings on Henry Knight. On the one hand, he was shutting Sherlock up with a case (a real one, not one with some luminous rabbit.) On the other hand, he was the reason John was going back to his own personal hell. He had walked in the door at the just the right moment before Sherlock went insane. He had told them his story, Sherlock had deduced him, and he had even smoked a cigarette. Now he was sitting in their living room, looking at Sherlock like he was crazy (and he wasn't far off). Sherlock was standing ramrod straight, waiting for Henry's response. Henry was twisted around in his arm chair, looking at Sherlock standing in the kitchen. He had a look of pure confusion on his face. "Mr. Holmes," he said slowly, "they were the footprints of A. Gigantic. Hound."Inside his head, John felt the wolf's hackles raise at the mention of the word. Did he really have to say Hound? Sherlock relaxed his shoulders and let the smallest of smiles hint his lips. For a second, John was relieved. Sherlock had called the footprints boring. And Sherlock wouldn't have anything to do with something boring. Which meant John wouldn't have to go to Baskerville..."I'll take the case," Sherlock said. John scrunched his eyebrows.

"Sorry, what?"

"Thank-you for bringing this to my attention, it's very promising."

"No, no, no, hold on. A minute ago footprints were boring, and now they're promising?"

"It has nothing to do with the footprints. As ever John you weren't listening."

Henry interrupted. "So you'll come down then?"

Sherlock appeared lost in thought for a half second, and then put on a passive face.

"No, no, can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy. But don't worry. I'm putting my best man onto it. Always rely on John to send me all the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself.

John froze. Sherlock wasn't going. He wasn't going. No. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. The only reason John had been able to accept he was going in the first place was because Sherlock would have gone with him. If Sherlock wasn't there, who would keep him SANE?

"What're you talking about, you're busy? You don't have a case! A minute ago you were complaining..."

"Bluebell, John! I've got Bluebell, the case of the vanishing-glow-in-the-dark rabbit. NATO's in an uproar," he added to Henry.

Henry appeared a bit disapointed, but kept his composure. "Oh sorry, you're not coming then?"

Sherlock shook his head with huge puppy dog eyes. Suddenly it all fell into place for John. The cigarrettes. John sighed, and then made his way over to the skull. The one place Sherlock never looked. He tossed the pack to Sherlock, who in turn tossed it behind him.

"Don't need those anymore. I'm going to Dartmoor. You go on ahead Henry, we'll follow later." Sherlock walked towards the door to show Henry out.

"Sorry, you are going then?"

Sherlock whirled around dramatically. "Twenty year old disapearence, a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

_But I definetly would_ John thought grimly.

**I felt like this chapter was short. But it brought back good memories- *sherlock puppy face*. It was also HELL to write. What did you think of this chapter? Would you mind telling me? PLEEAASSEE?**


	9. Twenty Minutes in Hell

**Hey guys! This chapter is from Jack's point of view, and then in the middle it goes back to the third-person and focuses on John. Review. Please. Please. Please. Make me a happy person. Just review. Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, our cliffhangers wouldn't be so agonizing.**

_John was going to be okay._ I kept telling myself this. Over and over. He had to be okay. I mean, the kid was a tough one, don't get me wrong. But even I have fears about going back to Baskerville. Anyone would. The things they did to you in that place, you didn't really forget. And now John had to go back there. He might lose control, or a scientist might recognize him, and then capture him or kill him._ He'll be fine,_ I argued with myself. He would have his detective with him. I didn't really know what to make of that Sherlock Holmes character, but I was positive John trusted him. Which was odd, because I used to be the only one John could trust. We had always had each other's backs, me and the kid. I think he kinda looked up to me as a father, or something like that. Maybe a big brother. Whatever I was to him though, I didn't even come close to Sherlock Holmes.

No, Holmes was special to John. Obviously not in a romantic way, but in a way that had me intrigued. John was part wolf, and wolves didn't love in the same way as humans. When they formed a bond with someone, it was strong, loyal, and nearly unbreakable. And John had formed that with Sherlock. Of course, it didn't help that the kid nearly tried to kill his best friend. I got him out of it, but I was still pretty ticked at him afterwards. I seemed to get John out of alot of bad things. Like Baskerville. I had nicked the codes to open the door, and then gave John short instructions on what to do. It had been perfectly planned out, and I might have escaped too, if that Major Barimore hadn't stepped in. I hated people like him. They thought the prefix before their name made them superior to everyone else. If he only knew exactly who I was. I had to wait another two months before I could actually get released, and THAT hadn't been nearly as exciting as when John got out. Alot more paper work. Speaking of which, I had about fifteen packets to sign...

Henry had been completely right when he had described Dartmoor. He had said it was "sort of bleak, but beautiful." _He couldn't have described it better_, John thought as he looked out the Jeep window. The dusty plain outside the glss had nothing on it apart from the occasional rock or shrub. Yet the simplicity of it had a certain charm to it that you couldn't quite put into words. The type of charm Sherlock would have took one look at and exclaimed "Boring!". John glanced over at Sherlock, who was driving the vehicle. Sherlock had been quiet the whole drive and, as usual, didn't tell John where they were going. That morning they had checked into their rooms (and John had had a very interesting conversation with the man at the desk,) and found someone who had suposedly seen the "Hound." Sherlock had got him to talk by saying he and John had a bet about whether or not the man could prove the hound's existence. In the end, the man had pulled out a giant footprint, and John had ended up fifty quid richer.

And the footprint really had been huge. If John had to track down that thing, he was in trouble. John was an exceptional fighter in wolf form, but something that big would be a challenge for anyone. Suddenly, John froze. He could smell something. It was familiar, but not in a good way. It smelled like disinfectant, chemical fumes, and rubber gloves all mixed into one. Baskerville. Well. Longtime no see. As they pulled up to the gaurded entrance, John watched in disbelief as Sherlock confidently gave the gaurd an I.D. "You have an I.D for Baskerville?" he said incredously. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"It's Mycroft's, access all areas. I, erm, _acquired_ it ages ago. I reckon we've got twenty minutes before they realize something's wrong."

John nodded. Twenty minutes in hell. Perfect.

"Right, so we're just going to waltz right in there. "Hi, we've come to have a look around your top secret weapon's base. Really? Come on in, the kettle's just boiled!" And that's if we don't get shot." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's pathetic attempt at a joke. John wasn't sure what to do. He had to go into Baskerville, because Jack had told him he couldn't act like he was scared of the place. It would make Sherlock suspect something. But still, someone might recognize him. In fact, the odds that Baskerville wouldn't notice it's most wanted escaped assassin were slim. And then what would happen? John didn't want to think about it. He'd make something up as he went along, as usual. He just hoped Sherlock knew what the heck he was doing. The gaurd gave them clearence and the jeep pulled the through the gate.

"Mycroft's name literally opens doors"...

Inside Baskerville, nothing had changed. John and Sherlock were following a pathetic shell of a soldier who was giving them a tour of the place. And he was purposely skipping all the places of importance. John could have given the full tour backwards and in his sleep. He didn't miss how the soldier convientally forgot to let them have a look into the geneial modification lab, or the dosage room. Or the punishment chamber. On second thought, John was glad they had skipped that one. Too many nasty memories. The wolf inside John wasn't particularly thrilled at being inside the horrid base once more. _I'm not trapped this time,_ John told himself. _They__ don't even know it's me. Yet. _Ahead of him, Sherlok and the Corpral strode into a lab that John had seen many times going into the training room. It was the small animal testing room. And John even saw a familiar face. Dr. Franklyn. The white haired werewolf fanatic, who had given John one of his first dosages. He had been obsessed with the idea of a werewolf assassin. And right now he was smiling at John like a snake smiling at a mouse. Hungrily. John tried to look away like he didn't know who the man was. As the corporal introduced Dr. Franklyn and Sherlock, he kept one eye on John. John swallowed the panic in his throat. Nothing bad was happening yet. At that moment, the Corporal began introducing Sherlock to a scientist called Dr. Stapleton, who John had never seen before. John followed close behind, avoiding the eyes of the curious Dr. Franklyn. When they reached Dr. Stapleton, a blonde woman with a pointed noise, Sherlock began his inquieries.

"And what is it you do here, Dr. Stapleton."

The woman's beady eyes widened in suprise. "I'm not really free to say."

Sherlock put on a false smile. "Oh you most certainly are free, and I suggest you remain that way." He dropped the smile at the end of the sentence.

The woman glanced at the Corporal before answering. John didn't focus on what she said, he already knew what she did. She messed with nature, and screwed things up. Typical Baskerville scientist. John looked around at his surroundings. So far the only person who had recognised him was Dr. Franklyn, and he had gone down the elevator lift. Probably to tell Barimore. They needed to get out of here fast. John focused back on the conversation. Sherlock was holding up a piece paper, and Dr. Stapleton was staring at it dumbfounded. "Have you been talking to my daughter?" she said in disbelief. Sherlock had the smug look on his face that meant he knew something everyone else didn't. "Why did Bluebell have to die Dr. Stapleton?" John scrunched his eyebrows together. "Wait, the rabbit?"

Sherlock turned around and started walking towards the door, which went perfectly with John's wishes to get out. But he just needed to know one thing. "Hang on, did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but instead checked his phone. "23 minutes, Mycroft's getting slow." John gulped. Somthing was wrong, he could feel it. There was an air of panic from the Corporal behind them, and as they got out of the elevator lift, John was met with a sight that nearly stopped his heart. Barimore. Just as tall and brooding as ever. And focused intently on John. The Major was standing with his uniform perfectly pressed, and he wore a mask of stone. John honestly couldn't tell what he was thinking. But he could guess. Everyone in the lift waited for the Major to do something, as he was standing in the middle of the hallway, making sure they couldn't pass through. Suddenly he broke into a smile that didn't look right in his face. "Oh Dr. Watson, you just couldn't stay away could you?" John felt Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head. The Major took a friendly step forward and kept the smile plastered on his face. "We're so glad you've come back John. How's life been treating you? Hopefully well, considering we need you in the best shape possible for what's coming next." John gritted his teeth. This was a mistake. "And what's coming next?" he said evenly.

The Major tilted his head slightly, like he was amused. "Don't you remember, my little assassin? We trained you for one purpose, and one purpose only. Take a wild guess."

"I'm not going to kill for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe we were just leaving."

John tried to push past Barimore, but the big man held up a hand. "Hold on, I don't think you need to go so soon. We haven't even talked about the new partner we've created for you."

John inhaled sharply with frustration. "What makes you think that I'll stay here? I can get out right now just as easily as I did the first time. If I change, not even your guns can stop me."

Barimore lost his smile, and nodded at the Corporal. John expected the soldier to lunge for him, but instead he tackled Sherlock in a death grip. The detective struggled, but couldn't get free. Barimore pulled out a gun and aimed it at the restrained Sherlock. John froze. "If you don't stay here without a struggle," Barimore said pleasently," I will shoot your little detective in the head." Sherlock went rigid, and stared at John with confused eyes. John's mind started racing. Sherlock was going to die if he didn't surrender. So which option: Sherlock dead or getting caught again? John didn't like either option. "Well?" Barimore said, waiting for an answer. John didn't know what to do. He had to think of something, and fast. What would Jack do? He already knew Jack's solution- whatever you do, make sure it's unexpected. If you don't like the enemy's game, don't play it. Do something they never thought you would. John swallowed hard. He already regretted doing this. But Barimore expected him to save Sherlock's life. And he sure as hell did not want to become a lab experiment again. With a silent apology to Sherlock, he took a deep breath, and prepared for what was coming next. "Shoot him."

**Sorry guys I had to! Moffat was rubbing off on me... Mwhahahaha. Oh and please review. I promise I will consider not killing Sherlock if you review...**


	10. I Didn't See Anything

**You guys have my most heartfelt apologies for the late update. Please let me know about any mistakes in the writing. Oh, and don't worry, Sherlock's death in this chapter will be short and painless. (I am silently laughing at all of your horrified faces right now.) ;)**

"Shoot him." Suprise flashed on Barimore's face for a fraction of a second, and then several things happened at once. Just as Bariomore pulled the trigger of the gun, John moved faster than he ever had in his human form. He leapt in front of Sherlock, who had flinched back in suprise, and felt the bullet rip through his chest. John went crashing towards the ground, and ended up falling straight into Sherock and the Corporal. In a pile of bodies on the floor, John managed to untangle himself and sit up in a crouch. He placed himself in front of Sherlock, who was still knocked over, and let out a growl from his throat. It registered somewhere in his mind that his chest hurt, and that he was bleeding, but he ignored it. He and Sherlock were going to get out of this alive.

Barimore was about to fire his gun a second time when all of a sudden a loud voice rang through the commotion. "Hold on Major, that won't be neccesary." It was Dr. Franklyn. The Major turned around with a look of utter hatred on his face. He lowered his gun ever so slightly. "What are you doing, Franklyn," he growled. The doctor didn't flinch. "Major, you know exactly who that man is. We need him alive, and shooting him isn't the way to do that. There are more peaceful ways to handle bringing our good old assassin back. Aren't there Johnny?" Everyone turned to look at John. John stayed in his defensive crouch, teeth bared, ready to phase at any moment. Barimore stared at him for a few moments, debating what to do. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. Behind him Sherlock slowly sat up. Finally, the Major turned back to Dr. Franklyn. "On your head be it. If he doesn't come back within the week, this whole project will have failed." Dr. Franklyn smiled like a chess player who had just won a match. "Thank you Major I'll show them out. Oh, but I'm afraid the detective one will have to be drugged. He knows a tad too much, don't you think John?" Before John could react, Sherlock yelped out in shock. The Corporal, who was still in the room, had swiftly jabbed a needle into his arm. Sherlock swayed on the spot before John steadied him. _Blasted Baskerville,_ he thought. Then John followed the doctor out of the room, half carrying Sherlock.

"Don't worry John, the toxin will only last for a few hours," Franklyn said once they were outside. " He won't remember a thing when he wakes up. Here's my cell number, in case you'd like to contact me about coming back." John struggled not to burst out into the snarling wolf. "You think I'd actually willingly come back to this place?" John nearly shouted. "Oh John, I'd love to leave you alone and free. But then of course, I might actually have to kill you're friend," Franklyn said with a smile.

"That would be tremendously ambitous of you," Sherlock mumbled, barely audible. It reminded John of the time he'd been drugged by Irene Adler. "Oh, and John," the doctor said calmly, "you might want to rub this on your new bullet wound." John looked down at his chest and noticed his injury for the first time. The bullet hadn't gone deep enough to kill him instantly, but it was still lodged in pretty well. The only reason John was still alive was that he had been using the wolf's strenth without even reaslizing it. "This is our latest advancement in healing technology," Dr. Franklyn said, holding out a small tube of liquid. "It will react with the mutation of your cells, and cause them to temporarily heal at an accelerated rate. Get the bullet out and dress the wound, and you should be fine in a few days." John looked at the doctor increduoudsly. "Healing from a bullet wound in a few days? You're joking, right? You don't have to be a doctor to realize how impossible it sounds to create something like that." Franklyn gave him a look. "We created you, didn't we?"

In the morning, Sherlock was extremely hyper. The drowsiness the drug had given him had made him sleep longer than usual, and he was so full of energy when he woke up that he was practically bouncing off the walls. During the time that Sherlock had slept, John had done self-surgery on his bullet wound. It had taken four hours, John had swore constantly the whole time, and yelled out in pain every two minutes. But, the healing syrum had done it's job. When John took the bandages off the next morning, it looked like there hadn't been a wound in the first place. "Incredible," he muttered to himself. Baskerville really was unbelievable.

"John," Sherlock said on the car ride over to Henry's house.

"Yeah?"

"Did anything happen at Baskerville that was, erm, unusual?"

"Unusual?"

"Yes, well. Um. It appears I may have possibly deleted the last part our visit, though I can't imagine why."

"Deleted it?"

"Yes, when I woke up this morning I couldn't recall a thing about how we left Baskerville. I probably subconciously deleted it, but that wouldn't quite make sense given the fact that I only delete what's not important. We were in the Baskerville military base, the very center of this case, I should have remebered every second of it!"

John nodded. The only way Sherlock could cope with suddenly not remembering something was thinking he "deleted it." John was just thankful Sherlock wasn't suddenly asking John whether or not he was an assassin.

"Well all that really happened was that you accused someone of something using a rabbit, and then we got shown out because you wanted to leave." Sherlock nodded, but still had a troubled look in his eye. John cleared his throat, deciding to change the subject.

"So, do you know how we're going to uncover this "hound from hell." I mean, breaking into the top secret army base wasn't enough, so..."

"Don't worry, I've got a plan."

"Going out onto the moor at night? That's your plan?." Henry, John, and Sherlock were all discussing what to do next over coffee. And both Henry and John were beginning to question Sherlock's sanity. "Yes John, the best way to bring out a monster is to find out where it lives," said Sherlock, turning to give a fake smile to Henry. Henry blinked furiously in an attempt to remain calm. John rolled his eyes. He wasn't terrified about going onto the moor, just weary. If it turned out he had to go and fight off some genetically enhanced superdog just to save Sherlock's hide AGAIN, he was going to be ticked. Really ticked.

Later on the moor, it was dark, cold, and eerily quiet. It was practically a horror movie waiting to happen. Ahead of him, Sherlock and Henry were walking at a fast pace, leaving John to trail behind curiously. The moor was cooling off after being baked in the mercyless sun all day, and many complex smells were rising to John's canine sharpened nose. There were so many interesting smells around him, John found it impossible to concentrate. Mainly because he could sense another wolf's scent lingering around the trail. John stopped walking to sniff again. Yup, it was definetly another wolf. Alive, female, and slightly disorientated, as if it didn't know what it was doing._ Baskerville probably drugged the poor thing to make her go out of her mind. Now she's stuck in wolf form, and doesn't know what the hell is happening. No wonder she attacked Mr. Knight, _John thought. But the wolf being out of her mind would only make it all the more harder to find her. With a sigh, John turned to follow Henry and Sherlock again, only to realize they were gone. "Damn Sherlock," John muttered under his breath.

Always too absorbed in the case to realize what was happening around him. John looked around. In front of him the trail lead into the forest, and behind him it lead back onto a rocky plain. To his left and right there were just dark trees. Oh w_hat the heck,_ John thought,_ it's not as if his majesty will be in need of my assistance any time_ soon. John was itching to get out of his human form, and shifting to the wolf would give him a better advantage to track the other wolf. Quickly checking to make sure no one else was watching, John discarded his clothes and hid them behind a bush. He then let the heat creep into his arms and legs, and sprang forward onto all fours. He could feel his bones shifting, and his muscles rearranging themselves. In the blink of an eye, he had become the wolf. And he really was an impressive sight. His sleek muscles rippled under his light brown fur as he moved. He had massive shoulders and a sharp glint in his eye that made you think twice about messing with him. He could feel his razor sharp teeth inside his mouth, so strong they could crush bone. If you were going to be picking a fight with John Watson, you were going to be asking for hell. As John moved forward into the woods, he kept his ears perked for any sound of Sherlock or the wolf who everyone thought was a hound. On the ground, he picked up scents of various animals who had scurried through the undergrowth, but found no more traces of the animal he was searching for. It was as if her trail had just disapeared. John continued searching, his nose to the ground.

He could smell Henry's scent now, but it was a few days stale. _He must have come through here on his way to Jewer's hollow before consulting us,_ John thought. But where was the other wolf? Just then, a low, pitiful wail pierced through the night. John snapped his head up, picking up every note. The howel had come from his left. Coincidently, that was where Sherlock had gone off to. John silently let his mind go off into a stream of curse words as he bolted in the direction of the howel. The other wolf was currently insane, and in her mental state she had killed a man. She was near Sherlock and Henry now, and if she found them, they were dead. John pumped his muscles as hard as they would go, but even then, he might not make it in time. Suddenly, he had an idea. Sherlock and Henry had been heading to Jewer's Hollow, and there was more than one way to get there. They had just been keeping to the path. If John cut through the woods on a different route, he would end up on the opposite side of the hollow in half the time. Veering sharply to his right, John found himself sprinting for about 70 meters and then making his way up a small cliff face. Finally, at the top of the cliff face, John peered down into Jewer's hollow, breathing heavily.

Henry and Sherlock were inside, looking wildly around for the source of the howel they had heard. John thanked God they were okay, and then let out a loud warning growl in case the other wolf was lurking in the shadows. That was a mistake. Upon hearing the noise, Sherlock looked up to find John standing on top of the cliff face. As a growling wolf. Who was unusually large. And had a look in it's eye that chilled Sherlock to the bone. John froze, realizing his mistake. Sherlock thought he was the "Hound." And the detective was currently opening and closing his eyes to make sure John was really there, as if he couldn't quite grasp the sight before him. John slowly backed away into the bushes, hearing Henry chanting "oh my god, oh my god" behind him. _Idiot!, _he silently scolded himself. Of course Sherlock would think he was the monster, he was a gigantic wolf for Pete's sake! John sniffed the air again just to be sure that Sherlock and Henry weren't in any danger. They weren't the other wolf had switched directions when it had heard John's growl.

John swiftly made his way down the cliff face and ran back to where he had hid his clothes. Sherlock would be looking for him now that he thought there was an actual monster out there. He slipped into his clothing just as he heard Henry and Sherlock make their way quickly around the bend in the path. John ran up to meet them.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"The Hound, did you see it?!" Henry answered instead. John shook his head.

"We saw it," Henry said in disbelief. "We saw i-"

"I didn't see anything," Sherlock said shakily, but firmly.

Henry stopped walking.

"What do you mean, we just heard it and-"

"I didn't. See. Anything," Sherlock said coldly.

**And you thought I was going to kill Sherlock... Guys, I'm getting overwhelmed with alot of Reichenbach feels. It hurts. My medicine starts with an "R" and ends with an "eview". So. You could let a fellow Sherlockian suffer in pain or...*ahem*...**


	11. Friends

**Okay, so I'm going to be wrapping things up in the next few chapters. It shall be an epic finale, and will not end anything like the Hound of the Baskervilles. Enjoy! Disclaimer:Knock knock? Who's there? Who owns Sherlock and Doctor? Who owns Sherlock and Doctor Who? Steven Moffat! That was bad, I know.**

After getting Henry home and giving him the drug to help him fall asleep, John went back to the lodge where he and Sherlock were staying. He found the detective sitting alone in the lobby by the fire. John sunk into the comfy seat next to him. The detective looked very shaken up, and was staring into the fire as if it held the secrets of the universe. His curly hair was even more messy than usual, and his eyes had a wild look to them. Next to him, John waited for his friend to make some smart ass comment about how the Hound wasn't real, or how Henry was a delusional idiot who needed his eyes checked. The detective didn't say either of those things, he just sat and looked into the fire. John waited. And waited. Finally, he tried to start a conversation.

"Umm, so Henry's quite a bit worked up. Says he saw that Hound thing."

No answer.

John cleared his throat. "Well look, what do we have so far? I mean the clues are a bit obvious. Pawprints, a dead man. And we all heard something."

Sherlock continued to silently stare into the fire. John waited, but to no reply. He gave up.

"Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog."

Sherlock turned to John with a look that he had never had on his face before.

"I saw it too John."

John inwardly groaned. He was afraid of that.

"Hang on, you saw what, exactly?"

Sherlock was visibly shaking, and John could smell the fear radiating off of him.

"I saw it too. Out there on the moor. A _gigantic_ Hound."

John sighed. This wasn't going to turn out well. Sherlock reached down to the side table and grasped a glass of whiskey tightly. He took a sip and then looked down at the glass. The liquid was sloshing around inside.

"Look at me John, I'm afraid. Interesting, yes? Emotions?"

John was seriously fighting the impulse to hug his best friend. The protective side of the wolf had kicked in, and hearing Sherlock was afraid made him sad. But he knew better than to try and comfort his friend. When Sherlock was on edge, he was bound to blow. And, as usual, John would be the target.

"Okay, well if you actually saw it, what's the plan? I mean, if there really is some gigantic dog running around on the moor killing people, we should probably call..what? Animal control?"

"I'm going after it."

John froze at that single sentence.

"Hang on, WHAT?"

"John, I'm going after it. This is me we're talking about, I know what I saw. It was...unreal. We were able to get it out on the moor tonight, if we wait too long we might not be able to catch it again. This could be our one chance. I'm going after it."

"Sherlock, I really don't think it would be the best idea to go out after a maniac dog in the middle of the night. You could get yourself killed."

"What, you think I can't handle it?"

"No, I just me-"

"John, we are talking about a genetic experiment roaming the moor outside right now. This is the case of a _lifetime._ I told Henry I would solve this, and I will, because I know what I saw. It was a huge canine figure, on the top of the cliffs at Jewer's hollow, it was growling, and it was real. I've never seen anything like it, and if you're too much of a bloody idiot to see that we can and must capture that thing tonight, then I don't know why I bother keeping you around in the first place!" Sherlock said the whole rant in under ten seconds.

John supressed a growl in his throat, and instead wore a mask of calm.

"Fine. Why listen to me, I'm just your friend."

Sherlock screwed his face up into a sneer. "I don't have _friends,_" he huffed.

That did it. John couldn't believe he had said that. The first night John had met Sherlock, he had killed a man for him. He had moved in with him after knowing him for a day. He had endured Mycroft's countless kidnappings, and had lost way too many girlfriends due to his devotion to Sherlock. He had been the one to keep Sherlock off of cigarrettes, and even worse, drugs. He had been the one to get Sherlock through all of his danger nights, and ignore the body parts and experiments in the kitchen. He kept a blog about every case that Sherlock solved. Just yesterday he had taken a bullet for that man. And Sherlock still didn't consider him a friend. Well then.

"No? Huh. I wonder why." John spat behind him before leaving. Sherlock could get himself killed, he didn't care. He threw open the door of the lodge and stepped out into the cold air. Outside, the air smelled crisp and clean. Normally, it would have been a perfect night to phase and run around in the woods. But if John phased while he was angry, he might do something stupid. Trying to keep his anger to himself, John walked down the road to a nearby cemetery. He sat down on a crumbling gravestone and, as he did so, felt his phone buzz. He pulled it out and squinted down at the screen. It was a text message from an unknown number. He opened the message.

**_Kid, it's me. I finally got clearence to be able to text you. How's the case going? _**

**_-Jack_**

John texted him back quickly.

_**Hound is real, and it's out on the moor. Baskerville created it to supposedly be my new "partner" in being an assassin. Sherlock wants to go after it. Still debating about what to do.**_

_**-John**_

About thrity seconds after sending the text, he got a reply.

**_Does Sherlock know anything about the wolf or your past yet?_**

**_-Jack_**

**_No, Sherlock's being an idiot._**

**_-John_**

John looked down at the sentence he had just typed. It was the truth. If Sherlock thought he didn't have friends, or that he didn't want any, he was an idiot.

**_What happened?_**

**_-Jack_**

**_I'm not sure. We got into a sort of argument. I was trying to get him to not go after the Hound, because of the danger. He just wouldn't listen. Long story short, he told me he didn't have friends._**

**_-John_**

**_Where is he now?_**

**_-Jack_**

**_Most likely out looking for the Hound._**

**_-John_**

**_And you're going to let him go alone?_**

**_-Jack_**

John clenched his teeth together really hard. Yes, he was going to let him go alone. If Sherlock got killed, good riddance! It was hardly John's fault if he did. All John did was try to help. And besides, Sherlock Holmes supposedly didn't have _friends._ So no one would care if he died anyway.

_**Yeah, I am. Let him see for himself what happens when he's too pig headed to listen to advice.**_

_**-John**_

While waiting for Jack to reply, he got a text from Sherlock.

_**Going out to look for Hound now.**_

_**- SH**_

John let out a dry laugh. Sherlock actually thought he cared. How cute. Just then, Jack texted back.

**_John, go after him. If you don't you're going to regret it later._**

**_-Jack_**

_**He doesn't want my help.**_

_**-John**_

_**Doesn't matter. Never leave a packmate behind. **_

_**-Jack**_

_**What if they leave you behind?**_

_**-John**_

John would like to see Jack's answer to that. The older man's response to hate had always been more hate. Fight fire with fire. See who was stronger. And John knew he was stronger. Just then, John got another text from Sherlock.

_**In middle of woods. Just heard something. I have a weighted net for hound and a gun. Should be fine.**_

_**-SH**_

It sounded more like Sherlock was trying to convince himself rater than John that he was safe. Johns phone buzzed, signifying Jack's reply.

_**You don't turn your back on the people you love. Even if they do.**_

_**-Jack**_

_**Well good, because I definetly don't love Sherlock. I don't even like him right now.**_

_**-John**_

_**Who said you had to like someone to love them?**_

_**-Jack**_

John stared at the text for a while. It made sense, in a way. The difference between liking a person and loving a person was that when you loved them, you didn't always like them. But you still stuck around. That's what Jack was trying to say. John sighed as he realised his old mentor was right. Sherlock was still his best friend, even if he was a pain in the tail. Just then, John got a final text from Sherlock.

_**John I need you to come. NOW, please. I know you're angry, but the Hound is literally right in front of me, and I don't think I can mdfwqsitew ? pw#fwOmssk; ;ww**_

Just then, a ruthless, hungry howl pierced throught the night. John's blood went cold.

_Sherlock._

**Review. **

**Please.**


	12. Johnny to the Rescue!

**Ok guys, I went back through this chapter line by line and improved it. This is the start to my finale. Disclaimer: I saw the new Star Trek. I like Spock. Moffat owns Sherlock. *applause***

John was up on his feet immediately. Forgetting about discarding his clothes, he threw down his mobile phone and phased within a tenth of a second. Anyone watching would have done a double take at the man who transformed into a wolf, and then most likely questioned their mental health, but John didn't care if anyone was watching. Sherlock was in trouble, and he didn't have much time.

Sprinting across the street, and simultaneously shedding the clothing that hung off of him, John ran into the woods. When he finally got the last piece of cloth off, he sniffed the air. The other wolf was in the East, and it was hungry. He tried to ignore the panc setting in. John wheeled to his right and took off, digging his claws into the ground for extra push. He had never run so fast, not even when he was escaping Baskerville. While he ran, he calculated Sherlock's probability of living.

All Sherlock had to defend himself was a gun. At least until John got there. The gun could be useful, but only if he used it right. If the wolf was really coming at him, the gun might not have any effect at all. It would take the wolf approximately two minutes to kill Sherlock if Sherlock was struggling. John tried to push himself, if it was possible, even faster. Trees blurred at the edge of his vision. His muscles bunched together and contracted effortlessly, over and over, as John pushed himself to his physical limits. As he got closer to where the wolf and Sherlock were, he smelled something else. Fear mixed with an overwhelming scent of...blood. Oh God, there was alot of blood.

Suddenly, John skidded to a halt as an inhumane shriek pierced the night. It was to his left, and with a growl of determination he adjusted his course. As he neared the place where the cry had came from, he spotted something up on the ground in front of him. It was a piece of fabric in a puddle of blood. John stopped to give it a quick sniff, and felt his stomach drop as he realized it was Sherlock's scarf. He was close. Up ahead, he heard another pitiful scream, this time closer. This one shattered his heart into a million pieces, because the scream formed the words "JOHN, PLEASE!"

John let out an enormous growl of fury and broke through the trees lined up ahead. There, laying on the ground in a gruesome heap, was Sherlock. His face was twisted in pain, and his coat was seeping with blood. He had a large gash in his forehead, and his left leg was bent at an awkward angle. To his left, the weighted net had been carelessly thrown aside, as if the wolf had literally ripped it out of the detective's hands. There was no sign of the gun, but that wasn't what John was focused on.

On top of Sherlock, the other wolf had her teeth firmly clamped down on the detective's shoulder. John didn't hesitate, he took off and rammed into the other wolf using his shoulder to drive it back. The other wolf let go of her pray with a snarl, and wearily regarded John. He bared his teeth in the most menacing way he could. Everything about him shouted _Stay away. _He positioned himself so that Sherlock was directly behind him, and let his fighting instincts take over. He could practically hear Jack in his head, telling him what to do. _Keep low to the ground, balance is everything. You're stronger, but your opponenet's faster. Don't try to be swift, literally use brutal force when she attacks. _John braced himself low to the ground just as the other wolf prepared to spring. He met her attack head on.

They crashed to the ground, in a rolling mess of teeth and snarls and claws. John landed three bites to the other wolf's neck, but he also had several deep claw marks on his right shoulder. When they sprang apart, the other wolf instantly danced to her left. _Don't let her maneuver around you, stay in front of her! _John sidestepped and stayed with her perfectly. The other wolf let out a small growl, and flashed out a paw to try and claw him in the muzzle. He dodged it easily. The dance continued. He made a lunge at her throat, she swept under him and nipped his leg. She dove at him head-on. He countered with his own raw strength. They continued on like that for several minutes, neither finding an advanttage to outweigh the other.

The other wolf was growing frustrated though; her pray had been within her grasp, and now this other wolf was trying to take it from her.

_She's getting mad. She's letting anger cloud her mind. Her next attack will be niave and thoughtless. Use it against her. _What happened next seemed to be in slow motion. The other wolf all but thundered into John, using all of her strength to try and overpower him. It would have worked to, if John hadn't been prepared. Instead of resisting, he used her momentum and let it take him. The force was so great that instead of the other wolf ending up on top of John, like she intended, they did a full roll, so that _John _ended up on top of _her._

He pinned her down and clamped onto her throat. She struggled tremendously, but he stayed put, despite the scratches she was giving to his under belly. Finally, after about two minutes, she stopped struggling and John let up. He knew she wasn't dead, but hoped she wouldn't be idiot enough to try and fight him again in her weakened state. He was right. She took off towards the North as fast as her legs could carry her. Unfortunatly, to the North was where a certain minefield lay. A few moments after the wolf had escaped, John heard and felt a large explosion rip through the night.

With a small twinge of regret in his stomach, he slowly turned around, looking for Sherlock. The detective was under a tree; he must have limped there during the fight. He appeared to be searching for something, but John couldn't fathom what. As John approached his friend, Sherlock whipped around and backed away. His eyes were filled with fear. John froze, once again realizing how he must look. A huge intimidating wolf, with blood all over his muzzle. With a broken leg and several large bite mark, Sherlock was in no position to defend himself. Or was he?

Slowly, the detective reached down and pulled out a gun from behind him. _That's what he'd been looking for! _ He must have dropped it there when the other wolf was dragging him. Sherlock pointed the gun straight at John's heart, and clicked the safety off. John didn't have time to do anything but jump back as the detective shot him straight through the chest.

John collapsed onto the ground in a heap of fur. In Baskerville, the bullet had missed any vital organs or bones, but this, this HURT. He knew the bullet had pierced something. In his shock, John phased back into human form, and cried out in pain. He couldn't breathe. In front of him he heard Sherlock drop the gun and let out a gasp, "John? What the hell? You- you were just..." For once in his life Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

John rolled to face his shocked friend. "It's complicated. I'll explain everything later, right now, you need to-"

"This doesn't make sense," Sherlock muttered to himself, clearly confused. "I was just aiming at a wolf. I wasn't seeing things, that was definetly a wolf. How are you now here?"

"Sherlock, I know it's difficult to process, but that's not important right now, you need t-"

"But that's not even scientifically possible! How can a wolf just suddenly melt into you? You were back at the lod-"

"SHERLOCK DON'T JUST SIT THERE I'VE JUST BEEN BLOODY SHOT! CALL SOMEONE OR SOMETHING!"

Sherlock snapped out of his daze and limped to John's side. "I'm sorry, I think I dropped my phone when I was attac-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as he finally got a good look at John. The doctor had cuts and bite marks all over because of the fight, but his CHEST; his chest wound was something Sherlock would never forget. The skin was gone, and there was so much blood you could barely see past the shattered bone.

"John, you need to get to a hospital!"

"No sh**, Sherlock," John mumbled before fading out of consciousness. He was losing too much blood. Sherlock took off his coat and wrapped it around his friend. "No, no, no John, stay awake. You need to stay awake until I can get you to a hospital." Panicking now, the detective frantically searched the ground for his phone. Two minutes later, he found it under a tree twenty yards from where John was laying. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. Scrolling through the contacts, he finally stopped at the one he was looking for. Taking a deep, shuttering breath, he pressed call. He was only doing this for John.

"Mycroft, I need your help. Now."

**Hmmmm... I wonder if the other wolf is really dead? So did the changes make it better? Tell me, please, so I can stop worrying. It really bugs me. REVIEW!**


	13. What the Heck had Happened?

**Yo**.** This chapter. Took. For. Ever. So you better enjoy it. Haha, no really, just tell me what you think. Disclaimer: I'm listening to the Maroon 5 album "Overexposed" while writing. I like Maroon 5 alot. Good writing music. Oh yeah, and I don't own Sherlock. **

By the time the ambulance arrived, it appeared to Sherlock that John must have lost at least 90% of the blood in his body. He knew this was highly unlikely, because John was still alive, but there was just SO MUCH. Sherlock had used his coat to cover John up, because he was naked (for whatever reason), and after just three minutes and forty-seven seconds, his coat was soaked through with the sticky red fluid. He had also tried to stop the blood gushing out of the wound with his leather gloves, but they were barely helping.

Two minutes and twenty-one seconds later, the ambulance had finally shown up, along with three of Mycroft's men. It had taken longer because they had to drive through the middle of the forest. The paramedics came out and immediately started working over John's limp figure, while Sherlock was shoved roughly aside. He watched as his friend was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled into the back of the ambulance. He tried to follow after him, but a paramedic blocked his away, saying "Sorry mate, we need room to work." Then the door was slammed and the vehicle took off, blaring its sirens down the road.

With a sigh of frustration mixed with exhaustion, Sherlock turned to Mycroft's waiting men. There were three of them, all impeccably dressed in dark suits, all proud owners of small lap dogs (except for the one on the right, he had a cat), and all concealing at least four lethal weapons. Typical, Mycroft would send THIS lot. "Gary, Bart, Jonathon," he greeted them coldly. "If you don't have a car waiting to take me to the hospital that ambulance is going to, then I suggest you don't waste my time and leave." Gary, the one in the middle, stepped forward and spoke as if Sherlock hadn't said anything. "Sherly, long time no see! Mycroft said you were finally off the drugs. Now ain't that a turn out?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth as he regarded the men who had been assigned to keep him off drugs from the time he had his first overdose. Mycroft had only agreed to take them off if he promised he would got clean, so he did. He thought he'd never see them again, but Mycroft being Mycroft, he was wrong.

"Firstly, it's not "ain't", it's "isn't". Use acceptable grammar or for God's sake keep your mouth shut! Second, I've been clean for at least two years and I don't see a relapse in the near future, so your point in being here is really invalid. Mycroft sent you here to annoy me, not help me, so either get me a car or get out. And third, don't call me Sherly." With that, Sherlock strode away through the forest, quickly to the main road.

But, before he was barely a minute into his brisk walk to the hospital, a sleek black car pulled up beside him. Wordlessly, he got in and slammed the door shut.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm going to have to ask you to please sit down," the exhausted nurse said. Sherlock was in the hospital waiting room, trying to get information about where John was and what was happening. However, this inconvenient nurse seemed determined to be as vague as possible about the condition and whereabouts of his friend. Setting his jaw, he prepared to push past her and just find John himself, when she let out a disbelieving gasp and threw her hands up. "Mr. Holmes," she said, trying to keep her some-what raspy voice under control, "it would be a great help to the hospital AND to your friend if you could please just sit-down and wait for information. The doctor will be out shortly to inform you of what's going on, but until then you must stay out-of-the-way and let us do our jobs! Your friend's life may very well depend on it!" Sherlock stopped in his tracks and fixed her with the coldest glare he had. This nurse had first fussed over his "injuries", if you could even call them that, then withheld information about John, and was now keeping him from seeing his friend. She was definitely not on his "try not to insult their intelligence too much list." And believe him, he actually had one, though there were few people on it.

With as much dignity as he could muster, he flung himself into a cramped hospital chair and huffed heavily. The nurse shook her head in amazement and walked away to hopefully find a doctor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How useless. As he looked around the empty waiting room for something to distract himself with, his eyes landed on a pile of magazines. _Dull. _He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee as he felt a nervous twinge in his stomach. What was going on?

There was something wrong with him. He felt strange. Almost as if his grasp of reality was slipping. Everything was blurry, all the lights and noises blending together into what seemed like one gigantic scream pressing into Sherlock's ears. His heart wasn't just racing, it was_ flying._ He couldn't remember his pulse ever being so quick; even in his days as a junkie, no high had ever made his heart rate this fast. His palms were breaking out into a cold sweat, along with his neck and forehead. His black curls were plastered to his head, and his bloody hands were trembling uncontrollably. He even noticed his legs shaking. But most noticable of all, he felt a terribly foreign sensation in the pit of his stomach, that made his insides squirm and his chest tighten. He couldn't place the feeling._ Damn these bloody emotions!, _he cursed. If John were there, he would tell him what was happening. _John..._ The feeling worsened as Sherlock recalled his best friend's pitiful state when the ambulance arrived. _What the heck had happened?_

He remembered going into the forest searching for the Hound, annoyed that John had let his petty emotions get in the way of solving the case. He had been in the heart of the woods when he had heard it. Thankfully he had been vaguely texting John his progress, so that if the Hound attacked, at least someone would know what was happening to him. The last text he had sent had been a pleading one, because he had finally gotten a proper look at the monster. It wasn't a hound at all, it was a _wolf._ The biggest wolf he had ever seen, and it's eyes were locked on his throat. It had attacked, ruthlessly and swiftly, and for one moment Sherlock could have sworn that that was it. He was going to die.

And then suddenly the weight on his back had lifted, and there were suddenly _two_ wolves, each fighting _each other_. Only the new wolf was even bigger than the first, and appeared to be just as good of a fighter. His thoughts immediately came to the one possible conclusion- they were fighting over prey. He was a piece of meat, and both wolves were willing to fight to the death for him. Sherlock had scrambled frantically around, trying to find the gun he had so stupidly dropped in surprise. When he had finally found it, it had been just in time; just as the larger wolf was advancing on him. He had shot it straight in the chest, and it collapsed. He had let himself relax ever so slightly then, thinking he was safe, when all of a sudden the wolf wasn't there anymore, it was replaced by John. Then things had gotten confusing, and... _God, what had happened?_

Had he actually shot John? The feeling in his stomach burst through again, and he suddenly recognised what it was. Panic. He was panicking. _Oh lord, not now._ He was not an emotional main, due to his profound belief that rationality was a far more valuable quality. Now was the time to be logical, to help John, not let some unwanted emotion get in the way of his brain function._ But what if John is dead? What if he died on the way to the hospital, and they're in there confirming it right now. Afterall, he had been shot square in the chest, which only gave him a seventeen percent chance of- _"Mr. Holmes?" a smooth voice asked, interrupting his terrible thoughts. Sherlock shot straight up out of the chair, and made his way to the waiting doctor in two strides. The doctor was short, with round wire glasses, a large nose, and cropped brown hair. His wife was having an affair with a bartender.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked hurriedly. The doctor held is hands up in a placating gesture and began his analysis. "He's lucky. The bullet missed his heart by a fraction of an inch, and instead passed through to shatter his collarbone and nick an artery. We need to bring him in for emergency surgery, if that thing keeps bleeding out, he's a dead man. We are going to put him on heavy anesthesia and try to extract the bullet, patch up the artery, and set his collarbone to heal. I need to get back, he has a limited amount of time." "Wait, doctor," Sherlock said, calling the doctor reluctantly back. "Will he live?" he said in a low voice. The doctor sighed heavily. "I do not know. There is a good chance he won't survive surgery, and if he does, getting through the night without heart failure is... improbable. Now, if you will excuse me." The doctor turned and strode down the hall, leaving Sherlock to stand there with a worried expression on his face.

Three hours, thirteen minutes, and five seconds later, the doctor returned to the waiting room to find Sherlock fidgeting impatiently in a chair. Sherlock stood up with a hopeful look on his face and the doctor looked uncertainly down at his feet. Finally he looked up. "Umm, well, the good news is he survived the surgery." "Of course he did, he's a soldier, he'd never die without a fight," Sherlock interrupted. The doctor looked at him, annoyed, but continued. "However, as I've said, heart failure is a possibility at this point. We have him in intensive care for the night, he's knocked out by the anesthesia. He won't regain conciousness until at least until tomorrow. Really, it I'm going to be honest with you, here's whats going on. If he makes it through the night, it's quite possible he can make a full recovery. But, if he doesn't, well, he doesn't. It's in God's hands now." Sherlock nodded grimly.

"Can I see him?" The doctor fidgeted uncertainly. "Normally, our policy is that only direct family members can see a patient in such a condition as this, and even then we are skeptical. But I just got a phone call from a high government authority, and it seems you are excused from this rule." The doctor sighed wearily. "Just know , if at any time we ask you to leave, it is for your friend's own good, and you will have to comply." Sherlock nodded and followed the doctor down the hall, for once thankful that Mycroft practically was the British government.

Inside John's hospital room, the walls were bare and there was a single closed window. John lay in the center of the small room in a bed, covered with a thin white sheet. He was in a hospital gown, and had a series of IV's hooked up to him. Sherlock could hear his heart monitor beeping slowly. The doctor gestured for Sherlock to sit in the chair beside his friend's bed, and Sherlock took it quickly.

"It is my assumption that you will be staying here for the night," the doctor said wearily.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, never taking his eyes off John.

The doctor nodded. "If you feel he needs any medical attention, the call button is right there," he said, pointing to a single black button on the wall. He then left without a word. Sherlock kept his eyes on his friend. John's face was pale and worn, but alive. Through the thin bed sheet Sherlock could see his chest was heavily bandaged. His throat suddenly felt very constricted. "John," he whispered, although he knew his friend couldn't hear him. _Stop being such a sentimental mess!_ he scolded himself. Emotions were so unfitting. But Sherlock still called his friend's name again, almost as if he hoped John would hear him through the anesthesia and listen.

"John, you need to stay alive. Just hold on through the night, and then you'll be fine. Please. If you leave me, I won't have anyone. I'll have no one John, no one to call an idiot and know they'll be fine with it, no one to buy the milk, no one to blog about our cases, no one to get me through the danger nights, no one to call my friend. Because it's true you know. As to what I said before, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."

Sherlock felt so uncomfortable admitting it, but for John, he would do anything. Even say things that sounded so un-Sherlock HE could hardly believe he was saying them. But they were true, nonetheless.

Sherlock grasped his friend's hand tightly and felt a single, lonely tear streak down his cheek. He really hoped Mycroft wasn't watching through the security cameras, because if he was, his brother would never let him live this down.

Two hours after midnight, Sherlock found himself still awake and by John's bedside. So far, his friend hadn't shown any signs of needing medical attention, but Sherlock kept one eye on the call button at all times. Just as the clock was rolling around 2:30, Sherlock heard a knock at the door. It opened quietly, and tall silhouette stood in the doorway. Sherlock gazed at the shadowy figure in annoyance. "Go away, he's fine right now," he hissed. He couldn't see who the person was, but he was pretty sure it was a man. The figure took a step into the room but didn't say anything. He appeared to be watching John curiously.

Sherlock fully turned his body towards the stranger now. "I said go away. Who are you? What do you want?"

The stranger finally spoke in a gruff voice.

"Mr. Holmes, my name is Jack. We need to talk."

**Alrighty, what did you think? I thought I could get away with Sherlock being a tad OOC, just because it was the heat of the moment, and I also needed to get some angst into this one. Review for me? Please? **


	14. Werewolves Don't Exist

**Please note: This chapter is from John's point of view while under the anesthesia. The late update is due to my vacation. I promise this won't become a regular thing. Disclaimer: I own Sherlock in my mind palace. Stupid reality.**

When John came to, the first thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. His eyes were so heavy he couldn't bother to lift them, and the rest of his body was so numb he didn't really register the need to put any muscles in motion. So he just stayed where he was, and felt a drowsy fog creep up on his mind. The second thing he noticed was the beeping sound. There was a constant, steady beeping sound that kept penetrating the blackness of his foggy mind. It was actually quite annoying, and for a second he thought it might be his alarm clock.

Alarm clocks were like that, always interrupting your slumber with unwanted noise. But as John continued listening to the beeping, he realized it wasn't an alarm clock, it was a heart monitor. _Why a heart monitor? _

Suddenly it all came rushing back into his mind, like water filling up a glass. The forest. The Hound. Sherlock. Getting shot...

John made an honest effort to sit up and open his eyes now. He could feel his brain struggling to send the message to his limbs, but they just wouldn't cooperate. His legs simply sat there like fat logs, and his arms lay limply at his sides, ignoring his will to move them. Finally, he gave up in silent exhaustion.

_I must be in a hospital_, he thought with slow realization. They must have put him through surgery and given him anesthesia, and that's why his body wasn't functioning properly. John inwardly cursed. The wolf mutation meant he wouldn't react to certain medicines and drugs the same way normal people would. His body was temporarily paralysed, while his brain remained functioning. They probably thought he was unconscious.

_Well damn it, _he cursed again. He didn't have time for this. He had so much to explain to Sherlock, before the detective figured out what was really going on. Then John wouldn't have time to explain his side of the story, or defend himself, and Sherlock would leave...

Just as John really started panicking, he heard a noise at the side of the room. Instinctively, he tried to turn his head to what sounded like an opening door, but he couldn't. If he could have groaned right then, he would have. Two people walked in going by the sound of their footsteps, and he could sense them watching his limp form.

_If I could just move something to let them know I'm awake!_, he thought in frustration. One of the people moved towards the bed, and John heard the scraping of a chair being pulled up beside him, and moments later he heard the person sit down. The familiar smell of Sherlock filled his nostrils.

The other person remained by the door, and spoke softly after Sherlock had sat down.

"It is my assumption that you will be staying here for the night." John couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question.

"Obviously," John heard his friend reply. Sherlock's baritone voice soothed his shot nerves, even in just a short word.

The doctor by the door spoke again. "If you feel he needs any medical attention, the call button is right there." The doctor must have pointed to the said button, because no more was spoken and the door closed again. John listened to Sherlock's quiet breathing beside him.

He wouldn't have expected Sherlock to be there, given the row they had had before the event in the woods. His friend had sounded terribly bitter, and although John had made peace and forgiven Sherlock, he didn't know whether Sherlock had forgiven him or not. He was betting on not. The army doctor felt a slight twinge in his stomach. It was going to be hard enough to keep his best friend once he explained he was a wolf, he didn't need that getting in the way too.

"John."

The detective's voice broke through John's train of thought. He focused on his friend. There was a moment of thick, confused silence, and then Sherlock spoke again.

"John."

This time, he called his friend's name louder, as if he was pleading for him to wake up. John struggled against the fog of his mind and the numbness in his body, but he couldn't make his frozen muscles unlock. Despite the war in his head, his body remained at rest.

Sherlock seemed to lean forward when John didn't respond to his calling, and began to speak quickly. It wasn't in the way he spoke when he was deducing though. He spoke as if he were... God, he spoke as if he were desperate. Desperate and bargaining for his life. Bargaining for John's life. For the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes was pleading.

"John, you need to stay alive. Just hold on through the night, and then you'll be fine. Please. If you leave me, then I won't have anyone. I'll have no one John, no one to call an idiot and know they'll be fine with it, no one to buy the milk, no one to blog about our cases, no one to get me through the danger nights, no one to call my friend."

Sherlock took a breath, and John wanted nothing more than to tell Sherlock that he would survive, he was already awake. But the detective didn't stop there.

"Because it's true you know. As to what I said before, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one." And right then and there John knew that if he actually was unconscious, he would have woken up, just so he could hear Sherlock say those four words. I've just got one.

So simple; yet they held so much meaning. The sociopath, the man, who from the outside, appeared incapable of having even a colleague, had just stated he had a friend. One friend, one man who broke the barrier. John.

Sherlock then took John's hand, much to his surprise, and simply waited. He didn't say anything more, but the army doctor had heard everything he needed to hear. His best friend cared. His best friend needed him. His best friend wasn't leaving him. Well, not yet anyways. John inwardly cringed at the conversation he knew was coming. Until then, all he could do was sit in silence with Sherlock. So the detective and the soldier sat there in the dark hospital room, waiting, though for very different things.

Some time later, John was brought out of his thoughts by the door opening again. He felt Sherlock let go of his hand and lean back in his chair to see the person who had walked in.

"Go away, he's fine now," he heard the detective hiss.

Whoever the person was, they didn't say anything, and John could sense Sherlock losing patience.

"I said go away. Who are you. What do you want?"

Suddenly, the stranger's smell hit John just as he replied to Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes, my name is Jack. We need to talk."

He sensed Sherlock stiffen. _Crap, _John thought.

"You were the man from the crime scene," the detective said softly.

Jack walked even closer to the bed, and John could sense his old mentor watching him.

"Yes, that's me," Jack said with quiet authority. "Now if you don't mind, we really need to talk."

"About what?" Sherlock said, clearly annoyed. "In case you didn't notice, my friend here needs me."

Jack snorted."Who, the kid? He'll be fine, his body just needs time to recover from the anesthesia. That bullet probably hurt though. Even for him, that was a lot. No thanks to you."

John could practically smell the tension in the room. There were a few seconds of silence, and then Sherlock spoke again, his voice low and full of venom.

"If you think I _shot _my best friend, then you are sadly mistaken. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?"

"I told you, my name is Jack. I'm an old...friend...of John's. And, like I said, we need to talk. There's something you need to know."

John was getting a sinking feeling that this "talk", was going to be about him._ Jack,_ he thought in frustration, _what the hell are you doing?_ On the one hand, if Jack told his secret, John wouldn't have to face doing it himself. On the other hand, Sherlock might not take it well if John's deepest secret came from a complete stranger.

"What are you talking about? Are you saying you know something about John?" Sherlock said in a slightly disbelieving, slightly amused tone.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Jack said grimly.

"This is ridiculous, get out before I-"

"Mr. Holmes," Jack said, cutting him off. "I know why John has that tattoo on his arm. I know why he nearly lost control at that crime scene. I know why there's a huge gap in his military record, and I know how he got shot in the shoulder. I know why he took that wolf's place when you shot it tonight, but most importantly, I know John's deepest secret. I know it, because I was there. He's been meaning to tell you it for a while, but he didn't know how. Now, being that he's unconscious, or at least can't talk, and that you need to hear this secret immediately due to recent events, I suggest you come with me to a private room so we can talk."

Jack's speech was met with silence, as Sherlock pondered the meaning of his words. John knew his flatmate's mind was whirling with curiosity. Finally, he stood up from his chair.

"Fine, but make it quick. I'm not leaving John for any length of time."

_What? No, I need to hear how this goes!_

John's silent plea was met with the sound of the door slamming shut.

What seemed like years later, but in reality was probably just an hour or two, John woke up to the sound of his name.

"John?"

John found he could finally open his eyes. When he did, he was met with the face of the world's only consulting detective inches from his own. When Sherlock saw John open his eyes, he sat back in his chair with a relieved grin. John blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sleepy mind. Had he fallen asleep? He must have. He had waited for Sherlock and Jack to come back in, but the anesthesia must have taken over his mind...

The army doctor looked up at his friend guiltily. What had Jack told him? Sherlock was still staring at John with an odd expression. Neither of them spoke, they just waited. After a few minutes, Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"So, your awake. That's good, I mean... the doctor's said-"

"I know, I heard," John interrupted.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just peered down at John with sharp eyes. John stared at Sherlock and waited. After a moment, the taller man spoke again.

"How are you feeling? I can call a nurse or...um.."

"No, no, I'm fine. I, uh. Well, I'm just glad I can open my eyes."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, not quite grasping the true meaning of the words. The detective looked down awkwardly, as if he was debating something important. Seeming to reach a decision, he looked up again with hard resolve in his eyes.

"So, your friend Jack came while you were unconscious."

John sighed. So they were going to do this now._ Get it together Watson, this is important._

"He told me a whole bunch of things. Mostly about you."

John felt the panic in his stomach bubble, even though he already knew that he was found out. He regarded Sherlock wearily. He had expected the detective to sound accusing, or disbelieving, or hell, even smug. But instead, the detective sounded...cautious. Cautious, as if he thought he were hitting a sensitive subject. Which, John supposed, he was, but Sherlock had never shown much regard for that sort of thing.

"What did he say?" John said indifferently, as if he didn't already know.

Sherlock's eyes flashed for a moment.

"That you're a werewolf."

The blunt sentence was spoken as easily as if he were talking about the weather. John raised an eyebrow.

"Werewolves don't exist."

"Apparently, they do."

"How would you know?"

"I live with one."

John didn't quite know how to respond to that. It was the truth, yet if he could find any subtle way to deny it, he would. However, you can't deny something so straight forward. He couldn't play it down, or try to convince Sherlock otherwise. The game was up. John looked awkwardly out the window, avoiding Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes. Yes you do," he said quietly.

Sherlock leaned forward in anticipation, now that he had finally got his friend to admit it.

"So it's true. You can physically change your form into a completely different species."

John nodded. "Sure, that's one way to put it," he muttered. Sherlock's eyes lit up in excitement. He leaned forward on his elbows and folded his hands under his chin.

"But do you know what this means? You're a scientific IMPOSSIBILITY. There is NOTHING like you in the world. You are practically a pioneer in genetic manipulation."

John pondered that for a few moments.

"How much do you know?"

"Jack told me everything while you were unconscious. What they did to you at Baskerville, how you escaped, really everything up until tonight. I didn't believe him at first, in fact I called him a number of insulting names, but then I realized, well, it was the only explanation to fit all the facts."

John lowered his eyebrows.

"And you're okay with it? I mean, living with a violent genetic experiment..."

Sherlock's eyes got wide with disbelief.

"Am I okay with it?"

John nodded in confusion.

"Well, yeah, I mean, when I lose control I could-"

"John. I really don't care what happens when you lose control. In fact, I find it fascinating. You just became the most interesting thing in the world, AND you live in the same flat as me. Who in their right mind would kick you out?"

John was silent. So it looked like it would be option two in the "scenarios-of-Sherlock-finding-out-his-secret". He had become an experiment. A mystery, in Sherlock's eyes. He felt his heart and his expression drop in sadness. He had lost what he had tried so hard to preserve.

Sherlock faced dropped its enthusiastic look as he noticed John's expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked in confusion.

John looked at him sadly. "Its nothing, I just-"

He paused, wondering how he could put it to Sherlock.

"I've just always been a... a puzzle to everyone. No one could figure me out. You being you, I'll know you'll try. I'll be the center of your experiments and deductions. I'll be the werewolf, the scientific phenomenon-"

"You'll be John Watson, my best and only friend, the most loyal and brave man I know."

John looked at his friend in shock. Did he honestly just say that? Like, for real? This was Sherlock, he didn't give compliments, he didn't show emotions, and he DID NOT pass up experiments. Was he being serious?

"Are you being serious?" he asked, voicing his thoughts.

Sherlock's eyes were dead serious and full of sincerity.

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life. If you're worried about becoming an experiment to me, I promise you won't. I'm extremely curious about your abilities and nature, but you're my friend, not my lab rat."

John just blinked in shock.

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

The detective winced and looked done almost painfully.

"I know, this is seriously starting to sicken me."

John laughed easily and in relief. His body seemed to sigh in content. He wasn't losing anything, but in fact had gained a whole new advantage. Sherlock knew he was a werewolf, and he was okay with it. He hadn't seen that one coming Well. Perhaps his luck was changing after all.

"So, umm where's Jack? Did he leave again?" John said, deciding to change the subject.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Hm? Oh, yes Jack. He went to the Baskerville minefield to see if he could recover the other wolf. He should be back any minute now."

As if on que, there was a knock on the door, and both Sherlock and John turned their heads to see who it was. Jack strode in, his massive form taking up most of the doorway. Behind him, John could see a woman shuffle in as well, but she was half hidden behind the older man. When his old mentor saw John awake, he broke into a toothy smile, but John could see it didn't reach his eyes.

"Hey, kid. Nice of you to join us."

John smiled back and nodded. "Yeah, I'm just happy I had the wolf to keep me alive. Could've been nasty. Oh, and thanks for telling Sherlock about it all. It wasn't like you could've asked me when I woke up." John spoke the last part with a bit of an edge.

Jack shrugged his shoulders and gave a sly grin. "Hey, he needed to know, and I didn't know when you were gonna wake up. But, what's done is done, right now I have something important to tell you."

John lowered his eyebrows, peering around Jack to get a better look at his companion. "Whose she?" he said, nodding towards the woman. She appeared to be almost _hiding_ behind Jack, and if John didn't know better, he'd say she looked guilty.

Jack stepped aside to reveal the woman fully. She was about as tall as John, and was very slim, with long brown hair and large blue eyes. But what really made her stand out was the fact that she was completely covered in blood and burns on the right side of her face. Her arm was covered in burns as well. This woman clearly needed medical help. Looking very self-conscious, the woman stepped forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She slowly looked up and met John's eyes, and then spoke in a quiet, unsure voice.

"Dr. Watson, I'm here with an apology, and a plea. We've met before, today actually, and I fear on bad terms."

She glanced at Jack, who just raised his eyebrows, and then she turned back to John. The army doctor waited patiently, although slightly confused. The shy woman took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"My name is Mary Morstan, and I was the other wolf."

**Did I do good? Come on, tell me I did good...**


	15. What Type of Plan?

**Disclaimer: So my friend Jess (she's awesome) and I were talking about our future jobs. We decided hers would be The Doctor's new companion, and mine would be the new owner and writer of Sherlock.**

_"My name is Mary Morstan. I'm the other wolf."_

The words echoed in John's head repeatedly, even after the woman named Mary Morstan had left. "_The other wolf."_

Initially, when he had found out the woman was the very same monster that had tried to maul his best friend, he had been furious. In a great rush he lunged forward, with his teeth bared, and a growl forming in his throat. Sherlock had grabbed the back of his shirt, and had tried desperately to restrain John. The wolf inside had been mad. Really mad. Mary had taken a step back, but not out of fright. It was more like she was trying to give John a respectful amount of space to freak out.

Jack stepped forward with his hands up in placating gesture. "Hey, kid, calm down. Let her speak."

John had frozen for a few moments, debating what to do. He then slowly relaxed his muscles into a less threatening pose. Sherlock loosened his grip on John's shirt, but still kept a wary eye on him, just in case.

"It's not what you think," Mary began quickly. "What I did to your friend in the forest, it wasn't me. My mind was drugged, I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry for what happened, but you have to understand, I didn't consciously know what I was doing."

John scrutinized her with hard eyes. As a human, she looked slumped, tired, and a bit scared. She definitely didn't seem like the seething, rage-filled monster he had fought previously.

"Sit down," he said quietly. She took the only remaining chair in the room. "Now, start from the beginning."

She took a deep breath, and then began.

"As you know, my name is Mary Morstan. Before this all began, I was a police officer from Cardiff. At the time, I was well-known for the buzz around me regarding the destruction of a particularly violent gang."

"I read about it in the papers," Sherlock interrupted. "you stumbled upon four lead members of the gang while on patrol. By the time back up arrived you successfully disarmed all of them and had them in handcuffs."

Mary nodded, and then looked down in modesty.

"Yes well, the papers made a huge deal about it." She cleared her throat. "Anyways, about four months ago, a group of armed men broke into my house, shoved a bag over my head, and drove me off to some secret location. When the bag was finally taken off, I found myself in a big white room. A man walked in, and began explaining things to me. He said I was going to be made into some sort of "super assassin," at this facility called Baskerville. He was going to genetically manipulate me, and then sell me to the government for millions. I didn't find out until later that I was meant to have a partner. You."

"They introduced me to a Russian man named Rush Wilgan. He was a huge, tattooed bloke that was a former assassin himself. He was meant to train me. You can imagine the rest. They dosed me with the formula twice a day, and no matter how hard I fought, I couldn't stop them from turning me into a werewolf. They branded me with a tattoo, like I was an animal or something."

She paused and held up her right arm, showing the number 582094 inked in black. John subconsciously traced the own branding on his arm as she continued. Sherlock noticed and winced. "It was scary, at first. Becoming a wild animal; feeling your perception of reality slip into something entirely new and strange. It's hard to get used to. But after I began to shift more easily, I found I liked it. The power, the awareness. It's amazing and sickening all at once."

John nodded, he knew what she meant.

"Anyway, after I learned how to phase properly, Rush's training became more intense. He wanted to teach me how to effectively kill in wolf form. It became... disturbing. I started resisting. I'd refuse to practice certain moves, or get into huge arguments about the morality of it all. They began to question their choice of test subject. Said I wasn't the right "type" of person. But, they didn't have time to dose and train someone new. Their deadline was coming up, and they had to think of something.

So they devised a sort of poison. It's a gas, that makes you lose your wits, and sort of makes you go insane. You know how it feels when you lose control, and you just want to tear something apart?"

John nodded solemnly.

"Imagine that, but a hundred times worse. You can't think, you can't control, you can only kill. It's...terrifying. I didn't know what I would do in that state. It's hard to remember everything that happens afterwards. They were testing it on me for the second time in a week when, somehow, I got out."

"And then you proceeded to hunt down anything on the moor that seemed appetising in your drugged state," Sherlock finished.

Mary nodded.

"I guess the bomb blast finally brought me to my senses. I woke up bloody, aching, and shivering when Jack found me. He explained everything that happened and took me here. I felt so absolutely awful, I can't believe I did such a thing." She put her face in her hands in shame.

And John knew right then and there that she was telling the truth. He just knew, as if the wolf could sense the pain and remorse she felt inside.

"It's alright," John said, feeling his heart go out to the woman. "Hey, it wasn't your fault."

"Well actually-"

"Shut up Sherlock," John said, interrupting his friend before he could say something hurtful.

"Something needs to be done," Jack spoke up, making John's attention shift back to his mentor. "Soon. Baskerville is going to have eyes out for their two lost experiments, and when they find you, they won't give you an inch. Escape at that point would be impossible."

"So what do we do?" Sherlock said, for once not entirely sure what was going to happen next.

"Well first," Jack said, placing his hands gently on Mary's shoulders,"I'm going to get her some medical help. And then," he said looking at John, with a mischievous glint in his eye, " I have a plan."

John raised an eyebrow. "What type of plan?"

"The type that would most likely result in the death of any living human."

John smiled dryly.

"Good thing I'm part wolf."

**"I'm not a phantom. I'm not a trickster. I'm a _monk._"**

**Who knows where that quote is from? (It was stuck on replay in my head while writing this.) Haha, please review.**


	16. The True Meaning of Crazy

**Disclaimer: Everyone already knows I don't own Sherlock. DO I REALLY NEED TO CONSTANTLY BE REMINDED OF IT?. Oh, and to my awesome friend Jess. Swaggity swixeen here's chapter sixteen. Swaggitty swouse don't sticky note my house.**

Crazy is a word that is often overused, stereotyped, and misunderstood. You can call someone crazy for doing something outgoing or dangerous, meaning that they lack common sense for being so daring. You can be crazy about someone, meaning that you love and fantasize over them to the point of obsession. You can describe a situation, event, or scenario as crazy, meaning that it was particularly unbelievable, or stood out. Crazy can be used as a crude slang word for the condition of being mentally unstable.

But Dr. John Hamish Watson had never truly grasped any meaning of the word until he had heard the plan. It wasn't that the plan made him feel mentally unstable (although it did make him feel sick to his stomach), or that he felt like obsessing over anyone in particular (despite how many people just thought "Sherlock" right there.) No, of all the definitions and categories he had spent the last hour putting "crazy" into, he decided that the first and third were the most accurate ones he could use to describe his current situation.

It was insane. It would never work. They were all going to die. And yet, it was the only sliver of hope they had. And for some reason, the only label John could really put on it right now was crazy. John sighed as he looked out the window of the jeep.

After Mary had gotten patched up, they had all huddled up in John's hospital room as Jack described his crazy plan. Sherlock had interrupted numerous times, made almost a gazillion modifications, and gotten into a humongous argument with Jack over John's life. After 2 hours, they had all finally gotten to a point where they all agreed. (Well actually, Sherlock was sulking in the corner, but for him it counted.) Then the next hour was spent going over and over the plan, both on their own physically, or discussing it together. And now they were on their way to execute it.

John took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Next to him, Mary Morstan was looking out the window at the barren landscape that gave off an overwhelming sense of beige. He studied her for a few moments. She was a striking woman really, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and hard blue eyes. It was hard to say the exact color they were. If Sherlock's eyes were the sky during a storm, then Mary's were the color of the ocean on a sunny day. Beautiful. She had laugh lines around her mouth, but they were overshadowed by the way her face drooped just a tad, as if she were inwardly sad about something. Her figure was slim yet strong, and John found himself surprised at his own happiness that she was barely taller than him. From the wolves' perspective, she smelled like honey and the woods and running. In other words, sweet and mysterious and free. John found himself very attached to it.

Noticing him staring, she turned her head towards him and raised her eyebrows. He quickly snapped out of his trance and looked awkwardly away.

"Nervous?" she inquired.

"Extremely," he admitted. The plan really didn't have a good chance of working. They would be lucky if they got away with just a few injuries.

Mary just nodded. John was suddenly caught with an overwhelming urge to ask her something.

"Do you, I mean, do you ever find it weird that it was us," he sais, not quite knowing how to phrase it.

She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

He cursed inwardly at himself. "I mean, do you ever just wonder why WE were the ones that had to be kidnapped by a top-secret military base and get turned into werewolves. Six billion people in the world, why us? The chances are ridiculous. How come we were the ones that had to go through it all?"

Mary looked down, pondering that for a second. Then, her gaze slowly found John's, and he could have sworn that those eyes were looking straight into his soul.

"I guess we're proof."

"Proof of what?"

"God saves his toughest battles for his strongest soldiers."

She turned back to look out the window, not saying anything else. John got the feeling that Mary Morstan was a lot wiser than he had previously thought.

When the car arrived to its destination (an empty lot two minutes away from Baskerville), John and Mary got out. Sherlock and Jack got out of the black car behind them. Both cars were courtesy of Mycroft. Jack quickly went to the boot of the car and pulled out five specific things. The first two were hand guns, which he handed to John and Mary. John tucked his in his front pocket. The next two were two large jugs of gasoline. He took one for himself, and handed the other to Sherlock. The last one was something that John was very surprised to see.

"Oh my God Sherlock," he groaned.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I didn't know we were using THAT."

"It's a very important part of our operation, John, and being that it is highly suitable to functioning"

"Hey!" Jack very nearly shouted. Both John and Sherlock snapped their heads towards the older man.

"Can we focus?" he said, handing the object to John. John tucked it carefully inside his jacket, awkwardly holding the bulge.

"Now," Jack said, voice serious," stick to the plan, don't panic, and only die if necessary."

John and Sherlock made eye contact at the last part of the sentence. No words were spoken, but they both understood perfectly what the other meant. Jack then took a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it to Sherlock. The detective caught it with ease. Then Jack and Sherlock started trudging East, gas jugs in hand. The cars pulled away as John and Mary headed reluctantly North.

The gates of a military base aren't particularly suited to invite people in. Their were armed guards, barbed wire, and loads and loads of security cameras. However, as John and Mary marched up to the front gate, no one stopped them. Unlike when he and Sherlock had gotten examined and questioned at the gate the first time they came here, nobody moved or said anything, they just watched the two dusty people striding down the road. They made their way to the security booth and John leaned forward, confident despite the group of soldiers staring him down.

"John Watson and Mary Morstan. Here to see Dr. Franklyn." The guard looked at them incredulously and blinked. He had obviously been kept on high alert for them, but certainly wasn't expecting them to come back of their own free will.

"Um, uh," he stuttered. His eyes appeared as wide as his fists.

John lowered his eyebrows in an expression that he felt mimicked Mycroft's disapproving gaze.

"Well, don't just stand there. You have a job to do man, get on with it!"

The security guard appeared to snap out of it, and picked up the phone on his desk. "Um, hello, this is security calling from the Main Entrance, gate 01. I have a bit of a situation..."

Ten minutes later, after being lead through several halls, cells, and labs by two nervous looking soldiers, John and Mary finally entered a large white lab with sinks, examination tables, and cabinets on the surrounding walls. In the center of the room, several computers were set up on a circular desk, with scientists sitting at all of them. Major Barimore and Dr. Franklyn were among them. As they entered, everyone in the room stood, expectantly waiting, with pleasant smiles on their faces, apart from the straight-faced Major Barimore. Dr. Franklyn was smiling widest of all, the smile of a man who has won. He nodded at the two soldiers, and they left, shutting the door behind them. He then stepped forward.

"John and Mary," he said, smile still present, taking in the two stone faced forms in front of him. Both were standing at their full height, alert and attentive, wearily waiting for something to happen.

The doctor continued. "I hope you don't mind the full room," he said, gesturing to the scientists behind him. "These are our top people we have working on your project. Oh, and I'm afraid we'll have to do a security check on you now, we skipped protocol at the gate because we're in a bit of a hurry. You two go to the government in two days, and we really don't have much time to chat. Ah, but at least you came back. Tell me, what made you change your mind?"

"Nothing," John said, his voice low and plain.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. We haven't come back, that's not why we're here."

Dr. Franklyn's smile grew wider, as if he was forcing himself to remain pleasant.

"Oh? Then why are you hear?" his tone slightly amused, slightly annoyed.

John took a deep, firm breath, and then simultaneously drew his gun with Mary. Everyone in the room visibly tensed.

"To threaten you," he said, as if he were talking about what to have for lunch. The doctor's eyes narrowed a bit, but his smile grew even wider, if it were possible. Behind him, Major Barimore made a movement as if to reach for his radio.

"Oh, Miss Morstan and Dr. Watson, I'm afraid you can't really do that," he said, studying his feet as he spoke in a soft voice.

"You see, you are in a military base. MY military base. And despite the fact that you have weapons in a room full of unarmed people, rest assured that there are more than several dozen highly armed people outside that door, waiting to sedate you if needed. We have cages ready for you two and everything, so if it comes to it, you'll be restrained, like the animals you are. And I don't feel threatend, you know why? Because no matter who you have time to kill in the precious few seconds before you are drugged, _everyone will be easily replaced_."

At this, John smiled, slowly and daringly.

"Really?" he said, as he pressed the gun up to his own head.

**I'm seriously debating if I should make John pull the trigger. It'd be such a clever twist. Then again, reviews have been known to change my perspective.**


	17. I Am John Watson

**Disclaimer: I own Sherlock and am making complete profit from it. All rights are owned by me, and I can do anything I want with the characters. Did you actually read all that? Good, because if you did, you'll know IT WASN'T TRUE. Still don't own Sherlock. :(**

Dr. Franklyn's sick smile now dropped all together.

"Now listen," he said, trying to reason.

"No, you listen," John said, not giving him a chance to speak. "Her and I are your only chances at giving the government it's assassins," he said nodding towards Mary, who had pointed her gun at her head as well.

"Without us, you're nothing. Finished. Your greatest project will have failed, and you won't have time to train new people. You see, not everyone in this room is so easily _replaced._"

Franklyn narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't," he said distrustfully.

"Are you sure about that?"

"As sure as I am that your name is John Watson."

John's mouth pulled up a bit at the side into a quirky little grin.

"Dr. Franklyn," he said, sounding smug and a bit too confident, "my name IS John Watson, and everyone in this facility has heard that name, and feared it. Including you. My name is John Watson, and the reason I came here in the first place was because I was reckless enough to sacrifice my own life for the greater good of others. My name is John Watson, and I was strong enough to survive being turned into a werewolf. My name is John Watson, and I survived living with Sherlock Holmes, AND becoming his best friend. You don't think I'm capable of pulling a trigger and destroying your plans? Well, my name is John Watson. And you can be damn sure I would."

_**Meanwhile on the North side of Baskerville...**_

Sherlock Holmes was good at many things. Deductions, insults, annoying people, e.t.c. But the one thing most people tended to overlook about him was how good he was at sneaking into places. Particularly well-guarded places. Like Baskerville. Getting past the security cameras had been easy enough, and once he and Jack had taken out the guards, it was only a matter of getting over the fence. Actually, that hadn't been a very simple matter, he had torn the bottom of his coat on the razor wire at the top.

"No, nononononono!" he shouted, as he dropped over to the other side.

"What, what is it?" Jack asked, hurrying over to see what was wrong.

"My coat," Sherlock said, trying pointlessly (yet desperately) to stick the to ripped pieces back together.

"What?" Jack said, still under the impression that Sherlock was hurt.

"I RIPPED MY BLOODY COAT YOU IDIOT!"

Jack rolled his eyes, partially relieved, partially annoyed. "Yes, well, I will mourn the loss," he said, walking away towards the gas containers they had thrown over.

Jack bent down and uncapped his container. "Look, Sherlock," he said, his back towards the detective," we have bigger problems than you tearing your jacket. John and Mary are in a lot of danger right now, and this whole thing is going to fail if we don't hurry up and do this. We don't have a lot of time."

When the detective didn't answer, Jack turned around.

"Sherlock honestl- Oh my God, are you _crying?_"

In front of him, the curly-haired man sat slouched, with a few tears streaming down his face. He appeared not to have heard Jack, because he just stared at the ripped part of his coat.

"Sherlock!"

At the sound of his name, the detective snapped out of it, quickly wiping the tears off his face.

"Yes, obviously. John, Mary, the plan, no time. Why are you delaying by staring at me? And I wasn't crying, don't be ridiculous."

Jack smirked as the detective joined him in opening his gas container.

"Then what do you call the drops that were on your face?"

"My cheekbones have been known to attract condensation. What do you want from me, different bone structure? I can't help that,_ Jack,_ it's how I was born. Honestly, some people are so touchy."

"Tell me about it," Jack muttered.

_**Back in the lab...**_

Franklyn's voice grew dangerously low as scrunched his eyebrows together.

"Okay, _John Watson, _what do you want?"

"Give me a microphone to the intercom."

Franklyn looked taken aback.

"The intercom? No, I don't think so."

John answered by tightening his finger on the trigger. Franklyn's eyebrows shot up and he quickly held up his hands in surrender.

"Now, now, no need to do anything rash. Miss Evans, if you could please give me the microphone for the intercom." The lady retrieved it for him and he cautiously handed it to John. Still keeping the gun up to his head, John took the microphone and held it up to his mouth.

"Attention people of Baskerville," he began, sounding calm and collected. "If any of you, any single one of you, values your lives over your jobs, please exit the building _immediately. _If you do not, you won't live to see the light of another day. Cheers."

John tossed the microphone back to Dr. Franklyn, still staring hard at the scientist. His jaw was clenched, but he didn't say a single thing. He let the weight of his words sink in for a moment. And then slowly, one by one, every scientist in the room left, apart from Major Barimore and Dr. Franklyn. Both men stubbornly had their arms crossed, and their expressions showed that they were clearly _staying put._

John smiled. He had expected as much. Knowing the plan was being set in motion, he pulled the object out from under his coat.

"Dr. Watson," Franklyn said, voice cold and disapproving, " it would seem you have a plan to get out of this facility. Let me assure you, if you and Mary don't comply with my demands, you won't be getting out _alive."_

"Never said I was," John replied grimly. "Didn't you hear me doctor? I told you my name was John Watson."

Still holding the gun, he pulled the trigger.

John Watson fell to the floor within seconds of the bullet entering the skull.

**Sorry boys! I'm SOOOO changeable. John couldn't be allowed to continue. He just couldn't. (Unless I'm lying, of course. John could be alive. Or maybe not. O.O) Do you hate me for that? *grins evilly* Tell me your thoughts darlings, or I shall have to leave you with that cliffhanger forever! Mwahahahahahahaahahahahaha **


	18. Better Start Running

**Just read. Disclaimer: (insert witty disclaimer here.)**

At that moment, an explosion tore the room apart. An ear shattering blast crashed through the air, and the back wall of the room crumbled from the force of the explosion. The lighting panels on the ceiling shattered into a million pieces, showering everything below with sparks. Not that you would have been able to really see the sparks, because the air was so thick with smoke by then that it was hard to see anything more than three feet in front of you. The computers were all smashed inwards, sparking and blowing fuses every couple of seconds. All the tables and chairs had been flipped, smashed, and thrown about. The jars of fluid from the experiments (which contained God knows what) were knocked over and lost in the destruction. The explosion even blew out the fire sprinklers, which had previously been ready to work on the ceiling. Flames quickly burst up from the wreckage, feeding on all the rubble left behind. The previously locked door had been knocked off its hinges due to the blast, and from the smoky doorway emerged two bodies, one dragging the other.

The first was Mary. She dragged the body over shoulder all the way until they were completely in the hall outside, slightly away from the panic of the room they had left behind. She then gently lay the body on the ground, and collapsed on the floor, gasping at the smoke-free air.

The body that lay beside her was John. Mary propped herself up on an elbow, still breathing heavily, and looked at him with sad eyes. She felt bad. He didn't deserve this. He was bleeding from his head, a red line steadily dripping down the left side of his forehead. His eyes were closed, and he had an almost peaceful expression on his gritty face. In one hand he still held the gun that had sent the bullet into the skull.

In his other hand, he held that very same skull. or what had been it, anyway.

Mary burst out laughing.

"You are really crazy, you know that right?"

Slowly, John sat up, winced, and wiped the blood off of his face.

"Yeah, I know," he grunted, stretching his aching muscles. The explosion, even thought they had both dove for cover as soon as John had set the bomb off, had left them both a bit shaken up.

"Sherlock's going to kill me," John groaned, as he looked at the shattered remains of what had been Sherlock's prized skull he kept on the mantelpiece.

"Why?" Mary asked, still completely baffled as to why they had to use it to hold the bomb. That part of the plan had never been made clear to her.

John rolled his eyes. "Because to set the bomb off I had to shoot it, therefore shooting the skull. It didn't have a timer or a trigger unit. The bomb is only set off by the penetration of the combustion chamber. It gives you about a two second delay, and then it blows. Unless I wanted my hand taken off, I had to shoot it."

Mary cocked an eyebrow.

"Okay, but why use the skull to hold it in the first place?"

"We needed something to conceal the bomb for security, and to somewhat deflect the blast so that I would remain intact when I shot it. Sherlock volunteered his skull." John shrugged and stood up.

Mary suddenly thought of something. "What do you think happened to Franklyn and Barimore?" she said, looking back towards the smoking doorway.

"Probably killed or knocked unconscious by the blast," John said, helping Mary to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" he said, scanning her for injuries.

"No, I'm fine. But you should probably tend to that cut on your forehead."

He shook his head. "We really don't have time. The fire in there is going to hit the gasoline they spread, and we're going to be toast. Better start running." They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, as if silently agreeing, and then they both bent down and simultaneously phased. John closed his eyes and felt his body shift into that of a more powerful, sharper being.

When he opened them, the smoke from the fire smelled much sharper. And much more threatening. Next to him, Mary opened her eyes as well and sniffed the air for a moment, gathering strength and adrenaline. And then they both took off.

They sped down the hall like race horses on a track, and at the end of it swung a sharp left. Behind them, the fire finally made its way out of its original room and steadily ate up the first hall. John and Mary rounded the corner to the third hall, past some labs, and then leapt into the fourh. It seemed that at that rate that they were steadily leaving the flames behind. It was an illusion. They both knew they needed to gain as much of a lead as they could before the blaze reached the gasoline.

Finally, at the end of the fifth hall, the pair found the stair case that lead to the roof. They scrambled up it, taking four at a time, and occasionally slipping as they did so. Behind them, they heard the screams of the few people who had remained in the building running for the emergency exits. They kept climbing up the stairs.

The thing about wolves and fire, was that they didn't really get along. The wolf was instinctively afraid of the element, because it would bite, and man could control it. Wolves didn't understand it. It could be the smallest flame that would nip you if you touched it, or it could be an entire wildfire that would swallow you whole. Even though Mary and John were part human, the wolves' instincts could over rule any logical thoughts. And really, even with a human mindset, running from flames in a burning building really was a good reason to panic.

And John couldn't seem to run fast enough. Every time he took in a breath of air, which was quite a lot given the way he was running, the smoke would fill his nostrils, and he would feel the natural panic set inside him. He would try to push himself even harder, but he was reaching his limits. No matter how fast he and Mary went, they could never quite reach a distance they were comfortable with.

By the time they had climbed their fifth flight of stairs, the bottom two floors of Baskerville were engulfed in flames. Experiments, technology, and weapons were being burnt up.

That's when the blaze finally hit the gasoline.

Behind him, John heard an almost explosion-like sound. He didn't turn to look. The flames that had been steadily eating up corridor after corridor of the military base were now flying through the building at a tremendous speed, as if they were a huge, fiery ghost. Even if Baskerville had fire trucks on their way, they wouldn't be able to put the fire out now. The flames burst through the building so fast that John felt them nipping at his flank within seconds of the explosion sound. He and Mary sprinted all the more quickly, if it was possible. Finally, they rounded the corner and came upon their last flight of stairs. At the top, John head butted the door to the roof open, the flames literally inches behind them now. The door swung open with a clang, and the two wolves burst out into open air, gasping for oxygen. The lack of smoke shocked them for a moment, and the sunlight nearly blinded them.

But, they didn't have time to catch their breath. Sprinting over to the edge, aware that in a few seconds the blaze would be upon them, John looked down at the ground below. A long ways below. If they jumped far enough, they would clear the flames crackling out of the windows and be able to run to safety. That is, if they would physically be able to run. John looked at Mary, who had pulled up beside him, and they stared into each other's eyes. It was either jumping from a seven story building, or being eaten up by a mass of flames. She gave the slightest nod of her head. At their backs, they felt the heat of the devil creeping up on them.

And then, they jumped.

**Review darlings. Review.**


	19. I Won't If You Won't

**Yup, so this is going to pretty much wrap up the story. Enjoy darlings :)** **Disclaimer: I own Sherlock. Sort of. A bit. Well, not really. BUT I DO OWN A CAT! **

John opened his eyes. All he could feel was pain, oh so much pain, and the blood trickling into his eyes. His brain felt a bit fuzzy, like he was looking at everything through a haze. His vision was like peering through a steamy mirror, and he couldn't hear anything, as if his ears had just decided to turn off. As he tried to assess his surroundings, a burst of flame shot up from the building a short distance away from him. He naturally tried to jerk up and away from it, but quickly collapsed back down as he felt a terrible pain shoot through his torso.

_"Bad idea," _he thought as he blacked out.

When John came to, he was no longer in pain. At first, that was all he could register. A few seconds later he became aware that he was lying on a soft bed. The air he was breathing wasn't filled with rough smoke. He could hear again, although all there was to listen to was a steady beeping to his right. Finally, he concluded that he wasn't where he had been.

John looked back at that thought and silently laughed at his obvious deduction. His brain was all muddled up. Where was he anyways? To know for sure, he would have to open his eyes, which he didn't want to do, because he feared that would ruin the tranquility of the moment. For once, he wasn't running from scientists, or fire, or worried that his friend would discover his secret, or just generally scared about the future. He was just lying there and breathing, no one but him, and it felt peaceful.

Then he opened his eyes.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, his face inches away from John's.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, shocked at his friend being there the whole time. Hadn't he just been having a peaceful moment?

"Your senses are still a bit mucked up from the anesthesia," Sherlock explained, leaning back into his chair. "You had to have surgery. AGAIN." The last word was said as if it were a fact, a warning, and bad news all in one.

John rolled his eyes and tried to sit up. So much for peace. Sherlock held up a warning hand and gestured to the sling John's right leg was hung in. John stared at it for a moment in surprise. Where did that come from? Sighing in defeat, the werewolf laid back down.

"What, uh," John started, trying to remember the events of the last 24 hours, "What exactly happened?"

"When you hit the ground from the fall, you broke nearly a dozen bones on the right side of your body, including your collarbone and your leg. Jack and I saw you two fall, and when you didn't come out, we went in and got you. It was rough to. You aren't exactly light, and getting Mary had been...er tricky."

John rose an eyebrow at this, but Sherlock pretended not to notice.

"We had you taken to the hospital, where you were brought into surgery, may I remind you, AGAIN, and then put to sleep for recovery," Sherlock rattled off, eyes never shifting from his friend.

John nodded. He honestly did not remember ANY of that.

"What about Mary?"

"She landed in a pile of burning rubbish, was knocked unconscious and has third degree burns. She sprained a wrist, but they say she'll make a full recovery. You both will."

John nodded, thankful that she was at least okay. "So, um Baskerville?"

"Destroyed. Burnt to the ground within five minutes."

"And Dr. Franklyn and Barimore?"

"Dead."

John nodded. Mission complete then. Well, for a while at least. He was sure that they'd soon find more trouble to get into. Just hopefully not TOO soon...

"So, I guess we can wait a few days before having any more adventures, right?" John asked, worried Sherlock would run off on a case before John could properly heal.

"Well, you successfully revealed to me that you were part wolf, destroyed a military base, jumped out of a burning building, managed to break thirteen bones on the right side of your body, and utterly DESTROY my skull within the last 36 hours. I'd say you're good for a couple of days."

John smiled fondly at his friend, who returned it easily. Suddenly, a thought occurred.

"Where's Jack?"

"Oh, he went to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Dull."

John nodded, but didn't say anything. He was too busy taking it all in. He, John Watson, had done it. Against all the odds, he had survived. Not just their insane plan, but simply his life. He had come out of Afghanistan intact, and that was impressive enough. He had escaped Baskerville, befriended Sherlock Holmes, went back and destroyed Baskerville, and was still breathing, functioning, and plain old living a life.

Well. A happy ending depends on where the story ends, right?

John smiled, and looked at his friend.

"I did it," he said simply. Sherlock smiled back, as if he knew exactly what John was talking about from that simple sentence. "Yes, you did."

After a second of thought though, Sherlock spoke again.

"But John?"

"Hm?"

"Promise me you won't be jumping off buildings anytime soon."

John grinned. "I won't if you won't."

**The End.**

**Wait, what? No. No way. I HATE endings. So, I won't end this. I will thank people instead.**

**I'll start by thanking anyone who has reviewed, whether consistently or in passing. I'll thank my Mom, for letting me start this, and for being my number one fan. I'll thank my best friend Jess, for being my wonderful conductor of light, and for distracting me from updating this story with the fantastic world of Doctor Who. Wait, was that something to thank her for? Eh, why not. I want to thank Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for creating the best show in the world, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the best stories in the world. And finally, I want to thank Jesus, for everything he's given me, including these awesome fandoms. So, with that said. Off to the next adventure!**


End file.
